The Only Thing That Gets a Little Complicated
by winter machine
Summary: It's divorce mediation day for the Shepherds. Time to sign the papers. It's simple, Addison and Derek are just going to split everything down the middle. "The only thing that gets a little complicated," said the mediator in 3x05, "is the real estate." A flip of "Oh, the Guilt," that grew into its own beast of a story instead. Two parts but I'm posting both at the same time.
1. The Beginning and the End

_A/N: Yes, a new story, but give me a chance to explain - it was supposed to be an FTS that grew out of control into its own story. There are two parts, but I'm posting both today. Thank you so much, Lu and Giulia, for the cover image. I didn't plan to write this story, but then sometimes things don't go according to plan. The smallest change can make a serious difference. In this case ... it's the mediator. He's the one who said that Addison and Derek would split all their marital assets down the middle, but "the only thing that gets a little complicated is the real estate."_

* * *

**The Only Thing That Gets a Little Complicated  
_Part I_  
**

* * *

"Dr. Shepherd, Dr. Montgomery Shepherd – please, come in."

A tall blonde woman, presumably the receptionist, smiles at them at they enter the lawyers' office. She looks a few years older than they are, though very put together: her skirt suit is one Addison – if she _had_ to wear a skirt suit, which thankfully she almost never does – probably wouldn't mind that much.

"I'm afraid we have a slight change of plans this morning," the receptionist says. "Jerome, the mediator you've spoken with, was called away on an urgent matter."

"More urgent than our scheduled appointment?" Derek asks. His tone is mild but it's clear he's not thrilled.

The receptionist glances at the wall, where a large gold-embossed plaque hangs. "As the governor noted just … last month, Jerome has made a practice of taking _pro bono _juvenile cases in his … spare time."

She says _spare time_ in a way that makes clear she means the opposite.

Derek looks slightly mollified.

"It ends up being far more than just the criminal case, as I'm sure you understand," the receptionist continues. "He's actually at an emergency removal hearing for the client's younger sister. Their mother speaks limited English and the child – well, she's only two – has some special needs. Foster placement could be devastating. Jerome is excellent in Family Court, and he's really their only hope. But if you'd like," the receptionist says, widening her eyes, "I can call him and tell him he should come back to mediate your divorce settlement instead."

"It's fine," Derek mutters, his face flushed. He glances briefly at Addison, who concentrates on looking out the large windows at the high-rise city view.

Or what passes for a high-rise city view here, anyway.

"Oh, good. I'm so pleased to hear it," the receptionist says. "Don't worry, one of Jerome's partners is happy to take over today – Steve has already reviewed your file and is an excellent mediator. Award-winning, in fact."

"Better than Jerome?" Derek asks.

"Different," the receptionist says, her tone thoughtful. "Steve's nickname is _Stone Cold_. You know, like the – "

"We know," Derek says hurriedly.

The receptionist beams. "May I get you settled now so you can begin?"

"Please," Addison says politely, smiling at the receptionist.

..

"Steve is certainly taking his time," Derek mutters once they've been shown into a good-sized conference room. The shelves are lined with the type of dusty-colored volumes she remembers from when she and Savvy used to trade off joint study sessions from the law library to the med library and then back again.

It's just the two of them sitting across from each other at the vast conference table. The receptionist is still in the room, setting up coffee. There's a stack of paper in front of each of them – she doesn't have to look to know they're divorce papers.

"Derek, he's filling in for his partner last minute," Addison says. "Thank you," she adds to the receptionist as she pours a cup of coffee. When Derek glances meaningfully at his watch, she rolls her eyes. "Do _you_ like to rush it when you're taking over a surgery?" she asks.

He frowns. "This is hardly brain surgery, Addison."

"Mediation is a skill," she says. "You know Savvy always says it's much harder than it – "

"You can't listen to Savvy and Weiss about legal things," Derek interrupts.

"They're lawyers."

"Exactly," Derek says, nodding a brief thanks to the receptionist, who is now setting out a pitcher of water on the table. "They think what they do is hard. They lack perspective. Lawyers – "

" – aren't saving lives, Derek, yes, I've heard you say that a few hundred times."

… usually when the topic of Weiss's salary arose. Per-partner-profits aren't exactly Derek's favorite thing.

He frowns. "And that's actual law, with … arguments or whatever. Mediation is just a glorified version of what we do when the kids are fighting over whose turn it is with the roller blades."

Addison lifts an eyebrow. "Roller blades? You're dating yourself, Derek."

"Then I'm dating you too, since we're the same age." He seems to hear what he's saying and clears his throat. "The point is, no one pays us five hundred dollars an hour to babysit our nieces and nephews."

"Your nieces and nephews," Addison corrects him.

It's not even that hard, since she's been practicing. In front of the mirror, in the hotel.

_Your _nieces. _Your_ nephews. _Your_ sisters.

Over and over until it the pronoun change she didn't ask for doesn't bring tears to her eyes.

It's a form of mediation with her own brain. Finding a way to make this impossible to fathom thing … fathomable.

Derek looks confused for a moment, then nods. "The point is, the cost is ridiculous."

"You're not exactly hurting for cash," Addison reminds him. "And we want to do this right – don't we?"

"Of course. Right … and quickly." Derek looks at his watch. "Which is why it would be nice if this … Steve … could show his face."

"I took the morning off," Addison says. "I cleared it with Richard and your name wasn't on the board either. We have time."

"Why were you looking on the board for my name?"

She blinks, her face flushing.

_First of all, it's my name too. Second of all: habit. Because I, unlike you, remember that we're married. We're not divorced yet just because you've forgotten about me._

She gazes across the table to avoid meeting his eye and sees the receptionist is still there, now dusting the end of the polished table with a cloth, humming slightly to herself. Feeling awkward that the conversation is getting personal, she lowers her voice.

"It doesn't matter," she says. "I just thought you blocked off the whole morning too."

"I did." His mouth quirks. "It's not work I'm trying to get back for."

Her heart pounds inside her head – and yes, she's a doctor and she's well aware that's not where her heart is, but audibly speaking that's where it is right now. Pulsing in her temples.

_It's not work I'm trying to get back for._

She opens her mouth, not sure what she'll say, or if she can say anything without crying.

What can she say? _So sorry that signing the divorce papers – something you could have done a year ago if you didn't want to take me back – is interfering with a morning date with your girlfriend._

"Well, it shouldn't take long," Addison says tightly. "You said you already told Jerome on the phone that neither of us brought any assets into the marriage. Well, other than my trust fund."

_And my actual trust, but hey, that's long eroded._

Oh, and the futon couch where they, but he's probably forgotten about that. Even the night when they –

But that was a long time ago.

Derek just nods. "Obviously you'll keep your trust fund."

"Obviously."

"And we're splitting everything else down the middle."

Including her heart, but she's not going to say that. (She'll save that for the inevitable alcohol-soaked night Savvy's promised her, involving deep tissue massages and some very, _very_ serious retail therapy.)

"About that," Derek says, taking a sip of coffee.

Addison glances at him. "What about it?"

"I don't want to split the real estate."

_The real estate. _Like they're playing monopoly or something. Like he's referring to a deed in a bank vault instead of two homes filled with furniture and decorations and books and clothes and fifteen years of cohabitation.

Plus, she's not sure what he's getting at.

"You don't want to split the real estate," she repeats.

"No. You can take it all."

"All – "

"I'd like to keep my trailer," he adds hastily, "and the land in Seattle, but you can keep the rest."

"The rest?"

"The brownstone and the house in the Hamptons."

_Thanks, honey, I forgot where we used to live._

She blinks, confused. "What are you doing, Derek?"

"Nothing," he says.

He takes a calm sip of his coffee, then drains the rest. The receptionist, who has been straightening books on the wide bookshelves, hurries over to refill it. "Thank you," Derek says, then seems to remember why they're there and turns to her. "Do you have any idea when … Steve … will grace us with his presence?"

Addison kicks him under the table automatically – another habit that's hard to break – and he glares at her.

"I know Steve is giving your case the utmost attention," the receptionist says. "There must be another client emergency. I'm so sorry you have to wait."

Derek sighs loudly. "We do have jobs, you know."

"I do know. And Steve knows too – Jerome shared your file." The receptionist pauses. "I could try to go – "

Her tone is hesitant. She's nervous – Steve must be one of those cranky law partner types Savvy used to complain about, and the kindly receptionist is afraid she'll get yelled at if she interrupts him.

"No, it's fine," Addison assures her. "We both took the morning off," she adds.

"Addison, do you mind?" Derek hisses when the receptionist returns to straightening the books.

"What?"

"I'd like to get back to the hospital as soon as possible," he says.

But they both blocked off the morning.

Of course, that was before she knew Derek was planning to give her both their New York homes to avoid having to decide how to split them up.

_He'd rather lose an eight million dollar brownstone than waste any more time with me this morning._

Eight million for an extra hour or two chasing Meredith Grey around the hospital.

Imagine being _that_ valuable.

"Which will also give you some extra time," Derek says grandly, as if he's giving her a gift.

_Extra time._

Just what she needs.

She lives alone in a hotel three thousand miles from everyone she knows doing nothing but working in a hospital where everyone looks at her with a combination of contempt and pity: the woman who thought she could win back … what is it they call him … _McDreamy. _Who thought she could win and lost.

"That's so thoughtful of you," she tells Derek now, wryly.

There was a time he picked up on all her tones; now he looks distracted.

Of course he does.

..

Every second ticking by on the watch that she bought for him – was it three Christmases ago? No, four. Derek's hard to buy presents for, but she always enjoyed the challenge. She caught him eyeing a similar watch at a benefit where they were seated separately, across the round table from each other. It was just a quick glance, nothing more – she's well aware that Carolyn Shepherd raised all of her children with a strict adherence to _Thou Shalt Not Covet_.

(Her mother-in-law apparently didn't really stress _Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery at a Hospital Prom_, but then again, Addison is also aware that _Thou Shouldn't Really Throw Stones About Affairs When Thou Were the One Who Started it._)

And if she weren't aware … well, she has Derek and the rest of the hospital to remind her that she cheated first.

_First. _She's not sure Derek would even consider what he did _cheating. _

But it's not like they'll discuss it. Every inch of Derek's impatient-but-oh-so-relaxed-at-the-same-time demeanor suggests that he doesn't plan to sit down and talk to her much after this … if at all.

And the thought shouldn't be as painful as it is.

"If Steve ever gets here," Derek says, glancing at his watch again, "he can draw up new papers giving you the brownstone and the Hamptons house and giving me Seattle and we can sign right now."

Derek is … smiling at her. He's smiling?

But then she sees he's actually smiling at the receptionist, who must have said something to him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that," Addison says politely.

"I was just telling your husband that he's a very generous man," the receptionist says. "Real estate is often something that gets a little complicated in mediation. So that's very generous of you," she repeats, smiling at Derek.

"Thank you," Derek says modestly, "but I don't mind, really. It's just simpler for everyone."

"Since your wife is moving back to New York, now she'll have _two_ places to live," the receptionist says. "She must be grateful."

Derek swivels in his chair toward Addison. "You've changed your mind about moving back to New York?"

Does he sound _hopeful_?

And is that not supposed to feel like an _actual _ten blade slicing through her?

She laughs a little, mirthlessly, to avoid having to give a full answer, just shaking her head.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the receptionist says now. "I just assumed – since you were giving her the properties – that she was moving back to New York."

Derek nods, his attention on his watch again.

"Why else would she take both properties?"

Derek is shuffling the papers in front of him.

"Because if she's not moving back to New York," the receptionist continues, "it seems like a great deal of work to deal with clearing out and selling two properties on her own."

Derek looks up, his face a bit puzzled.

"Unless it's that you're just trying to give her all the proceeds," the receptionist suggests, "which _would_ be generous, if she needed money."

"She doesn't need money," Derek mutters.

Her trust fund has always embarrassed him.

Somehow, _that's _okay. She's never been embarrassed about his humble beginnings, not once, but she's also felt like her roots required apology and really – is that fair?

It doesn't matter now.

Of course it doesn't.

But still.

"Oh." The receptionist looks from Addison to Derek. "But then why – "

"The divorce is my fault," Derek says simply. "I want to take responsibility."

The receptionist's face softens – of course it does, Derek is irresistible to everyone, what the hell else is new? Then again, _I want to take responsibility _is a bit like _I owe you an apology. _Just wanting it doesn't mean he's actually going to _do_ it.

And now the receptionist, who's holding a dusty old law volume in her hand – Steve must be a real stickler if he makes the receptionist dust all these books – is going to think that Derek is doing Addison a favor. That he's _taking responsibility. _

But she has responsibilities too.

"We both had affairs," she reminds Derek quietly.

"You had a one-night stand with Mark."

Her stomach tightens. Is now the moment? She draws a quick breath for courage.

"Actually, it was – "

"Okay, it was two nights," he interrupts. "You made a mistake. Meredith and I, we had a relationship." There's a misty expression in his eyes that makes her stomach tighten in an altogether different way.

"A relationship," Addison repeats. "Is that what the two of you were having while I was waiting for my husband to come back to the dance floor?"

Derek glances at the receptionist, who is diplomatically turned away, dusting yet another volume of – law texts or whatever they are.

"I told you I was sorry about the prom," he says tightly, his voice low.

"You did. But then you also said you felt _much_ better. Which doesn't make you seem very sorry at all."

"I _was_ sorry," he clarifies, his expression annoyed, "before I realized Mark was showering off your … relationship … while I was trying to apologize to you."

"You weren't trying very hard."

"Addison." He shakes his head.

"I apologized to you for Mark." She hears a tremor in her voice and hates herself. "I apologized _so _many times, Derek. You told everyone in Seattle who would listen what a cheater I was, what a bitch I was, and I took it because I know what I did was wrong. And because I _was_ sorry."

He doesn't say anything.

"You apologize _once_ and you want a medal."

"I don't want a medal," he says, annoyed. "All I want is Seattle."

"Well, that's great, Derek, I'm happy for you, but you still have New York."

"Not once we sign the papers."

"You can't sign away your life!"

She suddenly realizes she's raised her voice and, embarrassed, she reaches for the glass of water the receptionist left on the table and takes a sip, trying to get control of herself.

"I'm not signing away my life," Derek says quietly. "I _am _signing away my marriage – as are you – which is why we're here in the mediator's office, even if this supposedly award-winning mediator is nowhere to be seen."

"And you're giving your wife both New York properties," the receptionist adds. She's halfway up a ladder now reaching for some of the higher-up volumes to dust.

"Yes. All I want is Seattle. My land and the trailer. That's it."

Addison pours herself another cup of coffee.

..

"Who's going to prepare the properties for sale?" the receptionist asks casually as she straightens a stack of folders.

At Derek's puzzled glance she spreads her hands, looking a bit embarrassed. "I hate to speak above my station," she says. "But Steve lets me do some paralegal duties. I review files, pull out important facts, that sort of thing. Make sure Steve knows everything necessary to help clients reach the right result."

"Too bad she can't keep Steve to an appointment schedule," Derek mutters for Addison's benefit. Out loud, he says: "I don't know." He turns to Addison when the receptionist still seems to be waiting for an answer. "Aren't there – companies you can hire, that sort of thing?"

"How would I know?" Addison asks, irritated. "You think I've been divorced before?"

"I think you've thrown money at problems before."

"Which is definitely _not_ what you did moving to Seattle and buying expensive lakefront property and an oversized tin can on wheels to play house with a – lusty intern – "

"Meredith isn't a _lusty_ _intern_," Derek interrupts, glaring. "She's more than that."

"What is she, then?"

"She's … ." Derek glances up at the receptionist, who's back to sorting folders. "I don't think she wants to hear this," he mutters to Addison.

"I don't mind," the receptionist says. "I don't want to bother you, of course, but please don't let me stop you from describing your affair."

"You mean his _relationship_," Addison corrects witheringly.

"Oh, give it a rest," Derek mutters.

But the receptionist is still waiting.

"Meredith is – she's smart, and driven, and kind."

Addison blinks. "That's it? That's all she gets?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Derek, every intern in her cohort is smart, and driven, and kind – well, O'Malley might not be the smartest and Yang might not be the kindest and Stevens might not be driven toward the best things, but – that's all you can say for Meredith? She's smart, and driven, and kind?"

"She's … special," Derek says, sitting up a bit straighter.

"In what way?" Addison prods, not really sure why she's pushing it.

"In – in – look, don't do this," Derek says. "This isn't the time."

"Then when is the time? We're about to sign divorce papers. This is it for post-marriage post-mortem."

"Don't worry about Meredith," Derek says coolly. "Let's just do what we came here to do, if Steve ever bothers to join us."

Addison pushes on, despite his obvious warning. "I'm just curious if you know her at all. Smart, and driven, and kind? And _special?_"

"I know her," he snaps. "Do you know Mark?"

"I don't have to know Mark. He's just an _affair_, isn't that what you said, not a capital-R-freaking-relationship like you and your intern."

"Stop calling her an intern!"

"Oh, but she _is_ an intern, Derek. And we're attendings, and we're her bosses. Since you're so anxious to get back to the hospital, you'd think you'd know the hierarchy."

Derek shakes his head. "I don't have to listen to this."

"Steve should be here soon," the receptionist interrupts, "but I hope you won't leave before that."

Derek sighs. "Fine, I'll wait, but I'm not going to talk to her if she's going to behave like this."

"Like what? Like acknowledging that Meredith is ten years younger than you? Or that you're her boss?"

"_Addison_," he grinds out just before the receptionist gasps audibly.

"So sorry," she says meekly when they both look at her. "Just, ten years, and your employee – "

"She's not my _employee_," Derek interrupts, annoyed. "She's a very promising surgical intern."

"That means she finished medical school last year," Addison explains helpfully.

"Would you just shut up," Derek mutters, casting a glance at the receptionist.

"I'm in no place to judge," the receptionist says. She tilts her head. "You weren't her – teacher – in medical school?" she asks.

"No," Derek says quickly, "of course not. I didn't even know her then."

"So you met her – "

" – when I moved to Seattle."

The receptionist looks confused, her gaze sliding from Derek to Addison. "How long were you – "

"Two months," Addison supplies helpfully.

"It would have been longer if Addison hadn't decided to drop in," Derek adds, glaring at her.

"Two months," the receptionist bleats. "Oh. Well, that's – I mean – "

"When you know, you know," Derek says, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. "And I know Meredith is the one for me."

Addison reaches for the carafe.

_Too bad it isn't spiked._

..

They're still waiting.

_Don't do it_, she tells herself.

"Derek."

He glances over.

She does it.

"Meredith is _the one for you_," she repeats. "But – when you had the choice, you didn't choose her."

Derek studies her face for a moment. "I chose wrong," he says.

She invited the comment, truly, she did, but it stings anyway.

"You chose wrong to try to work on your marriage?"

Addison notices the receptionist watching and Derek seems embarrassed.

"Never mind," he says quietly. His tone is almost placating. "We tried, and it didn't work out," he reminds Addison.

"_I_ tried."

"So did I."

"You said you were trying, but you weren't trying."

"I took you back, Addison."

"Grudgingly."

"What the hell did you expect?"

"I expected you to put a little more effort in than occasionally coming home and once in a while throwing me a pity f– "

"More coffee?" the receptionist interrupts just in time, swooping down between them to lift the French press in her hand.

Derek looks up irritably, as if he's forgotten they have an audience.

"Thank you," Addison says pointedly.

Frankly, she's had so much coffee she's starting to vibrate, but being around Derek fills her with too much nervous energy and emotion not to need some kind of substance to get through it and she's trying to make the eight-am-champagne days as few and far between as possible for her liver's sake.

So coffee it is. She takes a welcome sip.

And another.

..

And they're still there.

And Steve is not.

When Addison finally sets her cup down, Derek is looking at her.

"What?" she asks, a little suspiciously.

"Nothing." He takes his own sip. "Are we at least agreed, then?" he asks. "So we can just – sign when Steve finally gets here?"

"Agreed?"

"I'll keep the trailer and the land in Seattle, and you'll keep the brownstone and the Hamptons house."

"Keep them for what?" she asks.

Derek shakes his head. "What do you mean?"

"What am I supposed to do with everything inside them?" she asks. It's something she hadn't quite considered until the receptionist raised it. "All our things. All _your _things."

"I don't need them," Derek says.

"Yes. I hear you saying that, but what do you expect _me_ to do with them?" she asks.

"… whatever you want to do with them," Derek says. He sounds puzzled. "They're yours."

"They're not. They're yours."

"Addison – "

"Well, some of the things in the houses are yours, and some are mine, and a lot of them are ours."

He looks a little uncomfortable now. "Like I said before," and his tone has an undercurrent of helplessness, "there must be companies that – deal with this sort of thing."

"How is a company supposed to know what – books and CDs and art to keep, and what to throw out, and what to donate?" Addison asks, raising her eyebrows. "That's what I came here to fight over."

"There's nothing to fight about," Derek says simply. "You can have it all."

Addison blinks. "It's not that I actually _wanted_ to fight over who keeps the – hideous crystal vase from the Captain's aunt, but – "

"The hideous one is from Bizzy's aunt, I thought," Derek interrupts. "Wasn't the one from the Captain's aunt the … sort-of-okay one?"

Addison considers this. They received so many crystal vases as wedding gifts from her parents' friends and relatives that it was sometimes hard to sort out. It became something of a joke between them over the years: the Shepherd Arboretum. Addison never wanted to get rid of them though; her mother would notice when she visited.

Which was rarely.

But if Derek minded keeping all that crystal around for Bizzy's once-every-two-years-if-that visits, he never said so.

"Whichever vase it is," Addison says finally, "it was a wedding present. Legally, it belongs to both of us."

"She's right," the receptionist chimes in from the desk in the corner of the room, where she's been carefully stacking notepads. "Occasional paralegal duties," she reminds Derek when he glances at her.

"And legally, I'm giving them to you," Derek says in a tone that leaves no doubt his patience is wearing thin. "Both properties and everything in them."

He turns to the receptionist again, maybe hoping for another compliment about how _generous_ he's being.

"And what if I don't want both properties?" Addison asks.

Derek frowns. "Why wouldn't you want them?"

"Why don't _you_ want them?" she challenges, turning it back on him.

And waiting.

"Because – because my life is here now," he says, sounding almost relieved at his own answer. "In Seattle."

"Yeah? So is mine," Addison says icily. "Because I left both those houses in New York and moved here to be with you."

Derek shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I thought after we – that you might – "

"Move back to New York? I'm so sorry to disappoint you, Derek, but I'm not moving back. So why would I want both New York properties?"

"Because … I had a relationship?" Derek offers. "I mean, because I had a relationship," he amends, removing the question mark from his statement.

Addison blinks. "Congratulations on your relationship, really, I'm happy for you, but what does that have to do with who gets which property?"

"The divorce is my fault," he recites now, rather like a wind-up doll who only has a few phrases.

Great.

"Okay, I'll take it, but again – what does that have to do with who gets the property?" She remembers what the receptionist said earlier. "It's not like you're throwing me a bone letting me sell them both and keep the proceeds – I don't need the money, and I'm not going to apologize for that either," she adds, "I didn't earn that money but I didn't steal it either and it … it is what it is. The point is, I need the proceeds from the properties even less than you do."

Derek says nothing.

"So if you're really sorry about what you did at the prom – "

He flinches.

" – and your … _relationship – _"

"I'm not sorry about the relationship," Derek says quickly.

It's Addison's turn to flinch.

She's lost momentum and when Derek looks expectantly at her, waiting for her continue, she shrugs him off.

_God_, this is taking forever.

..

"I don't want to overstep," the receptionist says then hesitantly as she refills their coffee. "It's certainly not my place. But if Dr. Shepherd is sorry for causing the divorce, then – " she turns to Derek – "why do you want to punish Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd by making her handle all the arrangements with both properties?"

"I don't want to _punish_ her," Derek retorts. "It has nothing to do with that."

"He already punished me by making me live in a trailer," Addison tells the receptionist helpfully.

"The trailer you begged to live in," Derek snaps.

"Begged? Hardly."

"Oh, that wasn't you who showed up on the porch with your suitcases, _enough is enough, I didn't move across the country to live in a hotel, I'm your wife and we don't – _" he stops talking, his face flushing a little.

"Yes, that was me," Addison says coolly. "I'm glad you haven't blocked out the memory of me entirely."

"Not for lack of trying," he mutters.

She swallows hard. "Well, let's get these papers signed and we can both forget all about each other."

"Not if Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd takes both New York properties," the receptionist pipes in, her voice less hesitant than it was previously.

Derek and Addison both look at her. She's wiping down the table again, this time at the head.

"What do you mean?" Derek asks.

"If Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd takes both New York properties, and you take just Seattle, Dr. Shepherd, then it sounds like _you_ may be able to forget your wife, but your wife will have to dedicate some measure of time going through both homes – a significant undertaking – sorting out all the marital property and both of your personal possessions from the marriage."

Derek looks a little uncomfortable. "Maybe there's a … company … that does that sort of thing … ." His voice trails off.

The receptionist shakes her head. "Steve's been doing divorce mediation for fifteen years and Jerome for twenty-five, and they've never mentioned a company like that. If they don't know about it – then I don't think it exists."

"Oh," Derek says. "So that means … "

" … that Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd will have to travel back to New York and spend time in each of the properties sorting out what's inside it, unless the plan is to hire a garbage crew to just trash everything in both places."

Derek winces very slightly at the term _trash_.

"You know, like they do with hoarders who pass away."

Now he winces more noticeably.

"So I suppose that is an option. But it would seem there's high-value property in those homes," the receptionist says mildly, "not really _garbage crew _sort of places."

"No," Derek admits.

"So what you're asking is for Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd to take on the task of clearing out both homes."

"Yes," Derek says.

"By herself."

"Well … yes."

"You're asking her to go through both the brownstone and the house in the Hamptons and sort through your clothing and hers, handle all the dishes and cutlery and glassware and serveware in the kitchen, sort wedding gifts, there's art of course, and then there's bedding and towels and that's leaving aside knickknacks and then of course furniture, and – "

"We get the idea," Derek interrupts.

" – and that's leaving aside those objects of sentimental value," the receptionist continues. "Photographs, for example."

Addison looks down at her coffee cup.

"Gifts to each other."

She tries to keep her gaze off the watch on his wrist. Is he going to take it off and return it, or put it wherever he stashed his wedding ring?

"Wedding albums – do you have a wedding album?"

"Yes, we have a wedding album," Derek says tightly when Addison doesn't answer. She's not trying to put him on the spot, she's just trying very hard _not_ to think about the album Bizzy selected with its sterling-and-white satin cover, those stiff formal-posed pictures that capture some, but not all, of the day.

That's a different album.

"We have two," Addison admits, her voice small.

Derek casts a glance in her direction.

She doesn't quite meet his eye. She's thinking of the silly oversized album with its cheerful plastic cover printed with blue and white boats. It's a cheap discount store album, with those stick pages and clear plastic covers, where every photo you paste down gets a gummy substance on the back.

The pictures in that album aren't formal or posed.

The pictures in _that_ album are Savvy's surprise wedding gift to them.

Giggling later that she couldn't tell Addison, not in advance, because Bizzy would find it _unseemly_, Savvy snuck into the formal banquet room at the Plaza and hid a little basket of disposable cameras on every table.

_So tacky, _Archer said when he discovered it, but he also seemed amused and snapped plenty of pictures himself.

They didn't see the results until later, of course, when Savvy had them all developed and provided them with a big box of photos.

Not big.

_Huge._

..

They spent a whole Saturday, a rare and carefully-planned joint day off, sitting on the floor of their apartment going through the photographs together, handing each other pictures one at a time. They were far from the carefully posed photos snapped by the society photographer Bizzy hired for the wedding day. They were candid or blurry, sometimes badly lit or out of focus. They captured laughter and cake-smeared plates and half-full glasses of fizzing champagne, guests dancing with abandon or rubbing sore feet as the evening wore on, arms flung around each other affectionately (and sometimes more, which she had to assume were Archer's pictures). The pictures were real.

Their real guests.

And that wasn't all: everyone who took a camera seemed to make it their job to photograph the bride and groom too. They laughed so much that day, Addison and Derek, when they saw the stark difference: far from the stiff proofs they've reviewed, Derek with his hands carefully placed on Addison's dress so as not to wrinkle it, ordered by the wedding planner who kept moving his hands and scolding him until Derek finally muttered in Addison's ear, _does she really think I don't know how to touch you? _She laughed and blushed at his words and the photographer scolded her.

_You're not supposed to smile right now_, she said.

There were no such rules for the disposable cameras. Not at the reception.

Their guests' pictures were truly, purely candid. They captured a beaming just-married couple, laughing, dancing together, moving from table to table to soak up the joy and good wishes of friends and family. And they captured two busy surgical residents on their first night off in two months, so exhausted by the extended festivities that Addison fell asleep on Derek's lap in a gold-and-white chair on the dais, her huge puff of a wedding dress practically smothering both of them – or that's how she's always heard the story, anyway. She didn't actually witness it. It was long after midnight, with the guests they considered _adults_ all gone, and it was Derek and Addison and his sisters and their husbands, Archer, Savvy and Weiss and Sam and Nai and Mark – of course Mark – their compatriots.

Their team.

They danced and laughed and joked and finished more champagne than anyone should and the others weren't ready to go. Derek and Addison weren't going to do the married-couple-leaves-early-from-their-own-reception thing. Not when it was their first night off together in months, not when they had their closest friends there to celebrate. So, untraditionally – _unseemly_, perhaps, but they didn't care – they were the ones who closed the party down, with the people closest to them.

Addison remembers bits of that part of the night, giddy and overtired from the free flow of both champagne and affection. Her memories are colored white and gold like her dress, the chairs, the sparkling chandelier – and black, like Derek's tuxedo that fit him so beautifully she teased him that she wanted to get married every night so she could see him in it. _Not everyone can pull off a tuxedo_, she told him admiringly when she saw it on for the first time. _I hope you'll pull off mine_, Derek says, his tone purposefully innocent, and then he waggled his brows and she swatted him: _Derek! You're spending too much time with Mark and Archer, I think,_ she scolded him. He pulled her in for a kiss. _I should spend more time with you, then_, he said, _you're a good influence._

They both laughed. It was such a funny thought: _I should spend more time with you_, as if _should_ had anything to do with the way they made time for each other. It was the opposite of an obligation. It wasn't even a goal. It was a necessity, even an instinct. As simple and as necessary as breathing.

But that night, after party bled into after-party and wedding into marriage, that night was a blur in her memory.

The pictures, though?

The pictures were clear. Even the blurry ones were clear.

Their guests captured moments she couldn't have seen herself: the way Derek watched her while she danced with the Captain – at his insistence, and Addison didn't know how to say no. In the photograph, Derek's expression was soft, but his stance was hard, almost aggressive – subtly enough that the photographer probably missed it, but Addison didn't. Addison knew what it meant.

He felt protective.

There's Mark adjusting Derek's bow tie while Addison looks on, her expression amused and exasperated at once, a hand propped on her hip, but sheer affection in her eyes if you look closely. Derek liked that photograph.

(He also liked the one she's fairly certain Mark took, where she's leaning down to extend a hand to one of her nieces and the angle down the bodice of her dress that seemed reasonably modest while standing was anything but.)

There's the one from the after-party when an exhausted Addison finally fell asleep; her eyes are closed and Derek's _look_ closed, but it's the angle. She's sleeping, and he's looking down at her. Her fluffy white dress is covering both of them, except the little bits of black where you can see his arms around her, her white cheek against the black shoulder of his tux.

And her favorite, the one when they finally left. She doesn't know who took it, doesn't remember anyone taking it at all.

She and Derek look utterly unaware of the camera. They're standing in a pool of low light at the edge of the ballroom, just the two of them. Derek is in his shirtsleeves, and he's draping the jacket of his tuxedo around Addison's shoulders.

(She must have been cold, she was always a little cold when she woke up, and she could never resist the comfort of a jacket straight from her boyfriend-then-fiancé -then-husband's body, still warm and smelling like him.)

In the captured image, she's smiling up at him – in her stockinged feet, her shoes dangling from one hand. He's mid-drape of the jacket, looking down at her, his eyes so soft she could get lost in them. She's not touching him at all, she has one hand gripping her shoes and the other her bouquet. Derek's touching only his tuxedo jacket as he drapes it around her.

And yet somehow the shot is so intimate, so private, that she flushed the first time she saw it realizing someone else had snapped the picture.

..

She's flushing now for a different reason.

Heat is building in her cheeks because she's realizing she's going to have to deal with that box of pictures.

She's going to have to deal with the ones they selected for the silly boat album they liked to prop on the shelves next to the unbearably prim one Bizzy's photographer provided.

She's going to have to deal with the picture of Derek draping his tux jacket around her shoulders, which has had a place of honor next to the lavender sachet in her lingerie drawer since they moved to the brownstone.

She's going to have to deal with Derek's actual tux, too – it's still in archival wrapping in the back of the walk-in closet along with her wedding dress, the thought of which makes her throat dry up. Derek didn't get that far back when he was grabbing her clothes the night he caught her with Mark. He only snagged the low hanging fruit, what he could tear off quickly. Their wedding clothes survived.

She's going to have to deal with every crystal vase from the Bradford side, the Forbes side, the Montgomery side, and the Mayhew side.

She's going to have to deal with the furniture they selected together, from the oversized chair Derek chose and Addison pretended she hated event though she secretly adored how they fit in it together to the antique couch with its stiff whorls that wasn't Derek's style but he insisted they purchase when he saw how much she loved it. And everything else that fills all the rooms in all their homes, from the Winslow Homer sailboat print she chose to hang in Derek's office to the framed photograph of Elizabeth Blackwell he selected for hers.

Every other framed photograph too, from their frizzy-haired youth to their far sleeker current selves to the old pictures of their separate baby- and childhoods.

Every book, from medical school texts to the novels she never had time to read to Derek's fishing journals to the travel guides they used to buy before there was an internet, for when they'd lie side by side dream about where they'd travel when they finished medical school.

Every mug in the kitchen from the matching red Sinai cups they received when they signed their first contracts to the bright green and yellow _Brasil!_ mug Addison brought back to Derek from a conference in Rio – and then whispered, _that's not all I brought back for you_, and made him chase her up the stairs and catch her before she'd show him the rest.

Every pair of jumbled boots in the hall closet: wellies that always reminded her of traipsing on muddy New England coastlines while Derek regaled her with stories of his childhood fishing adventures and she teased him about it but secretly loved every image of the mop-haired boy she never met – ruggedly rubber padded winter boots that took them through two surprise blizzards in the nineties, snow up to their knees, building what passed for a fort in the brownstone's tiny backyard and pelting each other with enough snowballs to make up for those missed childhood games – warm fleecy boots of the type she'd treat as house shoes, she was always cold but those boots were warm and cuddly and Derek stopped teasing her about them after she greeted him one Christmas morning wearing just a pair of the tall, tan shearling boots she preferred … and nothing else.

Every pillow they slept on and sometimes, punchy and sleep-deprived in early mornings, used to swat each other in fights that would turn swiftly into something else.

Every thousand-count sheet she insisted on and Derek pretended was a compromise instead of a deserved luxury.

Every pair of earrings he ever bought her, from before and after his taste in jewelry developed.

Every piece of fishing paraphernalia she bought him, painstakingly and lengthily researched.

The plaid flannel shirts he wore that she pretended she hated but secretly didn't.

The thick Irish wool sweaters he wore that she actually admitted she loved.

The coffee-colored negligee he bought her that wasn't her color.

The red negligee he bought her that was definitely her color.

His shirts that she used to say looked so good on him.

His shirts that he used to say looked better on her.

The jeans he liked and she didn't.

The jeans both of them liked.

Every piece of clothing.

Every pair of shoes.

Every toothbrush.

Every hairbrush.

Every thing.

_Everything_.

..

… and she has to do it alone.

"Addison."

She glances up, lost in thought. "What?"

Derek looks a little embarrassed, but also confused. Did she miss something?

"I, uh, I was asking you if you minded … you know." He clears his throat.

"Minded – " She stops talking. "You're asking me if I mind clearing out both our homes by myself?"

The receptionist is watching them.

Slowly and a little awkwardly, Derek nods.

"If I mind doing all that work on my own." She pauses. "I thought you said giving me both houses was a favor."

Derek glances at the receptionist, his face flushing a bit. "I was trying to make things simple," he mutters.

"Clearing out those houses isn't going to be simple." Addison blurts the words before she can censor herself.

Derek isn't looking at her.

The receptionist is, though. Her eyes are gentle, empathetic, even pitying – and Addison feels her own face flood with heat.

_Pitiful. _

The almost-divorcée whose almost-ex-husband is so ready to be rid of her that he's writing off tens of millions of dollars of prime real estate.

"Someone has to do it," Derek says.

_Someone has to do it._

The feeling of melancholy lingering in her chest turns to something else entirely.

"_Someone has to do it?_" she repeats loudly. "That's what you have to say?"

Derek blinks, looking affronted. "Addison. There's no need to raise your voice."

"I don't know, Derek, I think maybe there is a need to raise my voice." She shakes her head. "_Someone has to do it _so you're going to make me take care of everything in both those houses, _everything_ we ever bought together, everything we did together, you're going to make me take care of it all by myself across the country while you stay here having … _hospital sex _with your precious intern?"

"Stop calling her an intern," he snaps.

"You called me Satan," she says, her voice lower now. "All over that hospital. To anyone who would listen. You called me Satan. She _is_ an intern, Derek. And I'm not Satan. I'm your wife. I was your wife at the prom when you slept with Meredith and I was your wife when you put your – " her voice cracks slightly and she clears her throat. " – when you gave me your jacket," she says with as much dignity as she can manage, "the one with Meredith Grey's panties in the pocket."

There's a moment of silence. When Addison looks up the receptionist's eyes are wide, the dusting cloth frozen in her hand.

"I said I was sorry for that," Derek mutters, not meeting her eye.

"So sorry that you're going to leave the entire mess of our marriage in my lap for me to deal with."

"That's not what I – "

"You know what, Derek? You take them. You take both houses."

He frowns. "What?"

"No, please do," she says, gathering momentum. "I don't need the money, as we both well know. You keep all the property. Keep it and deal with it yourself."

"I don't want to," he says automatically and her eyes widen.

"Well, neither do I," she says.

They both find themselves looking helplessly at the receptionist. "Someone has to deal with it, though," she says, her tone sympathetic. "A divorce isn't the end of joint responsibilities. It's the beginning of new ones."

Derek and Addison exchange a glance.

The receptionist sighs a little. "Affairs are nice," she says.

Addison is taken aback and from Derek's posture he is too.

"I just mean – they're fresh. They're fun. All the good parts of relationships – sex and caring and teasing and discovering. None of the tough parts, like figuring out the responsibilities of sharing a life, or sticking with each other when things get old and tired instead of new and exciting. Marriage is hard work. You get the sex and the caring, but you also have responsibilities and obligations and the drag of real life. And divorce? Divorce is all drag, no sex and no caring but lots of obligations and responsibilities before it's done. The bad without the good."

It's the most she's spoken and Addison shifts uncomfortable in her seat.

She finds her gaze drifting to the receptionist's hand. Her left hand.

"You're married," Addison guesses.

The receptionist nods. "Fifteen years now," she says.

"Fifteen," Addison's eyes widen. "You're not disillusioned – working with divorce lawyers?"

"No." The receptionist looks from Derek to Addison. "Not when couples get what they need."

"Don't all couples need a divorce? I mean, all couples who come here?" Addison asks.

"Some do. Steve always says some couples just need space to talk."

Derek frowns. "Why would a couple talk in a divorce lawyer's office?"

"He's a mediator," Addison corrects him.

"Fine, a divorce mediator." Then Derek seems to remember that they're still waiting for said mediator … and looks up at the receptionist.

"I'm so sorry." She spreads her hands, looking uncomfortable. "I can go tell Steve you need to sign right now, except if I interrupt a confidential – "

"Never mind," Derek sighs, "we've waited all this time. Besides – " He glances at Addison. "I'm, uh, I'm not sure what we're signing."

"The properties," Addison says hastily. "You mean which of us gets which."

Derek nods.

Here goes … something.

..

Addison draws a deep breath. "We both had relationships outside the marriage. We're both equally liable. You take the Hamptons."

She braces herself, but he doesn't react to her first sentence.

"I hate the Hamptons." That's all Derek says, distractedly.

"You say you hate the Hamptons, because you have an _image _to uphold," Addison reminds him, "but then you take off your shoes and walk in the sand and admit that it's actually an incredible piece of beachfront property and you feel relaxed there, and – "

"We get it," Derek says, apparently including the receptionist in the conversation now. He lowers his voice, looking uncomfortable. "If we each take one property, we're both going to have to deal with … disposing of one property."

"Yes. I can do the math. Two people, two properties." Addison lifts her eyebrows. "Which would be harder for you than just dumping it all on me."

"That's not what I said."

"It's not what you said, but it's what you meant."

They just look at each other for a moment.

"I don't want to do this by myself," Addison admits.

Derek actually looks the tiniest bit sorry.

She's going to lose her nerve if she keeps looking at him.

Gritting her teeth, she forces herself to speak.

"Derek … I need to tell you something," she says, just as he suddenly looks up at her.

"What do you mean, _we both had relationships outside the marriage?"_ he asks.

Oh.

So he did hear her.

It suddenly feels very small in the large conference room.

Addison looks from the sparkling rings on her left hand to the sparkling surface of the table the receptionist keeps polishing.

"Mark and I … it wasn't a one-night stand," she says quietly. She sees Derek stiffen across the table, but it's now or never. "The night you caught us, that was the first time, but – after you left, I didn't want to believe that I threw my marriage away for nothing, that I threw my life away for nothing, and I … stayed with him. I lived with him for two months."

Derek is staring, his face drained of color, and guilt speeds her pulse and her speech at the same time. She can't seem to stop talking.

"I missed you, Derek, I was lonely and scared when you left, I had no idea where you were, you wouldn't call me back, and I – I thought you'd never speak to me again – "

"I shouldn't have," he cuts in, his tone so cold it chills her to the bone.

She swallows hard, tears in her eyes. "Okay. I deserve that," she says quietly.

"You deserve a lot more than that." He pushes his chair back angrily, shaking his head. He doesn't get up, but his eyes – so soft in her memories, the ones in her head and the ones in the house she dreads revisiting – hard as stone.

"Derek," she says tentatively.

He cuts her off before she can continue. "You and Mark. You really didn't think this was information I should have had when you asked me to take you back?"

"I do think you should have had it," she says carefully, "and I was wrong not to tell you, but Derek, I was afraid if you knew you wouldn't – that you could never forgive me."

"So you lied to me instead."

She swallows. "I didn't – it wasn't – I wasn't truthful." She's staring into her coffee cup like it holds answers. It's better than looking at Derek's angry face and seeing once again how much harm she's caused.

"Why did you come to Seattle?" he asks, his voice clipped.

Addison blinks. "For – Richard called me, you know that."

"And told you what?" he asks.

"That – that he wanted my help with the TTTS patient, Derek."

He just stares at her, not speaking, in that way that's always worked far too well to get her to talk.

It's because the silence starts making her anxious, and she needs to fill it so that he doesn't leave and he must know this and –

"And he told me you were seeing an intern," Addison admits quietly.

"Of course he did," Derek says bitterly. "And that was enough for you to leave your _boyfriend?_" he asks, his tone scathing. He's looking at her like she disgusts him and she clearly does and the thing is, she gets it.

She gets it.

It's exactly why she was afraid to bring it up.

She gets it … but it still hurts.

"I was already … leaving him," she admits.

Derek doesn't respond.

"Mark is Mark," Addison says, tracing the handle of her coffee cup with one finger. "I, uh, I caught him with someone else."

Derek blinks.

"And then Richard called and Derek, that whole time after you left was a – " she's about to say _nightmare_ and she stops, knowing how it sounds. "A blur," she says instead.

"You lied." Derek is leaning back in his chair, looking at her with unmasked hostility. "You lied and you asked me to choose without giving me all the information."

"Well, you already said you chose wrong," Addison reminds him dully, "so I know you would have chosen Meredith if you knew I'd stayed with Mark. You don't have to remind me."

Derek shakes his head. "Of course you're somehow the victim in all this. Poor Addison. I forced you to lie, is that it?"

"No." She glances at the receptionist, who is discreetly dusting around a plant on the side table.

"Derek, you said you wanted to take responsibility," Addison says when he doesn't respond.

"I did."

"And now you don't."

"Now I know the truth." Derek looks at her. "So yes, I take responsibility … for believing anything you said. That was my mistake. After you had an affair, when I should have known you couldn't be trusted. That's my responsibility."

"What about your other mistake? What about your affair?" she asks, her mind swimming with the images she's tried to forget, that awful day leading up to the prom when the discrete pieces of her broken marriage and the confusing dynamic between Derek and their _friend_ Meredith started to come together. "What about you and Meredith?"

"She wasn't an affair," he snaps, "how many times do I have to say it? I wasn't married when I came to Seattle. Not in any meaningful way. You didn't exist."

"But I did exist, Derek! You don't get to just – decide I don't exist. You can ignore me, you can divorce me – "

"I can try," he mutters, glancing at the receptionist, who shrugs helplessly at Steve's continued absence.

" – but you can't just snap your fingers and make me disappear. And anyway, that's not the affair I meant. I mean the one after I was here. The one that you denied and then left her – skanky panties in your tux pocket for me to find."

"I didn't leave them for you to find," Derek says immediately. "That's not how I wanted you to find out."

"What was your plan, a singing telegram? The issue isn't the delivery, Derek, it's the message."

"Addison."

"And then you came back from – wherever the hell you were when you took those skanky panties _off_ her – and you lied to me."

_Where have you been? _she asked.

_Uh, I was with a patient, _he said.

She was standing there laughing with Finn over ridiculous prom pictures, looking at a snap of herself and her husband – his arm around her shoulders, her face grinning up at him, both of them far too old to be standing in an arch of silver and black balloons for a prom polaroid.

She closes her eyes briefly, back in the moment. Back at the end of the prom. He appeared again, after his absence. She reached out for him – automatically, he was still her husband then, her fingers just brushing the tux jacket he was buttoning.

No, not buttoning, _still _buttoning, because he must have been dressing himself after – what they did. Her cheeks burn. His fingers brushed hers when he turned, and –

"Did you even wash your hands?" she asks, disgusted.

Derek blinks, then narrows his eyes. "Did you wash yours," he asks, his tone deceptively pleasant, "the night I walked in on you and Mark?"

She falls silent.

"We're surgeons," she says finally, after a moment. "We, uh, we should maybe practice better hygiene."

She's sort of kidding, but mostly just trying not to cry.

Derek doesn't meet her eyes.

"You were sleeping with her," Addison says quietly, "behind my back. I asked you what was going on between you and you told me there was nothing to tell. You lied to me too."

"I wasn't." Derek looks up at her now. His face is – exhausted, his eyes shadowed. But he doesn't look like he's lying. "When you asked me, I wasn't sleeping with her."

Addison tilts her head, trying to put it together. "But the elevator – "

He shakes his head.

"The vet's office."

Another shake.

"And those mornings you'd come back from your walk with Doc smelling like her shampoo?"

Derek freezes visibly.

"What, you thought just because I didn't bring it up that I didn't notice my husband smelling like another woman?"

Derek glances over at the receptionist, looking uncomfortable. "It's not what you think," he mutters.

"What do you think I think, exactly?"

"We weren't sleeping together," Derek says to the tabletop. "We did – we were walking Doc," he says. "That's all we were doing, and I didn't tell you because I knew you would overreact to it."

"You knew I would overreact." Addison's eyes widen. "You thought I'd keep you from taking secret walks with your girlfriend."

"She wasn't my girlfriend," Derek snaps, "you saw to that when you flew out here and demanded I give you another chance."

Addison lets the word _demanded _go. "Not your girlfriend? I have news for you, _honey_, when a married man takes secret walks with a women and doesn't tell his wife because he thinks she would _overreact – _that's called having a girlfriend."

She sees him flinch at the word _honey_, and then again at _girlfriend. _

Good.

She leans forward, lowering her voice, that purposeful tone that she knows works on him. "I can still call you honey … honey. Right now, we're still married. Even if you're counting down the minutes until you can get back to hospital and get Meredith into a – "

"That's enough!" He slaps a palm down on the polished wood table.

It startles her enough to make her jump a little in her seat and then she has to grab her coffee cup with both hands because she feels shaky for some reason.

When Derek speaks again his tone is placating enough that she can tell he feels a little guilty for losing his patience. "Look. I know you're … upset," he says stiffly. "But this isn't the time to dwell on the past."

"The past?" Her eyes widen. "Derek, there are leftovers in the hospital fridge older than your _relationship _with Meredith. It's hardly the past, even if it's inconvenient for you that I can't just – get over it."

"Addison." Wearily, he rubs the bridge of his nose. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to take responsibility," she says, her voice shaking a little. "I want you to deal with half the New York property and I want you to admit that even though I lied about Mark and I'm _sorry _about that, Derek, more sorry than you know – even though I lied about Mark, I didn't do it to hurt you. I did it because I wanted so badly for you to give me a chance. Because I wanted so badly to fix our marriage. Because I _loved _you. But you – you lied to me about Meredith not because you wanted me to give you a chance, not because you wanted to fix our marriage, not because you loved me."

Derek is looking steadfastly down at his hands.

"You, Derek, you lied to me because it was easier to lie and keep me quiet so you could keep seeing Meredith behind my back. Even if you didn't sleep with her, you were having an emotional affair. You were having an emotional affair and you can't even admit it. And you were stringing me along the whole time."

"That's not fair," he says quietly.

"Maybe it's not fair, but it's true." She takes a sip of water. "You didn't want to have to deal with me. But divorcing me – that's work, it's effort, and you didn't want that either. So you just let me keep living in that trailer and following you around the hospital like an idiot while you did whatever you wanted with Meredith and lied to me about it."

Derek looks up at her. "That's – not how I see it."

"I'm sure it isn't, but that's how it was." Addison takes a deep breath. "Derek … I was wrong to lie to you about Mark, and I'm sorry. I apologized for sleeping with him every day I've been in Seattle. I regret it more than you know. And you have the right to be angry. But you took me back. You said you wanted to work on our marriage. You said you wanted to try."

"I know." He looks down at his hands again.

"You said it, but you never really tried."

He doesn't defend himself, just keeps staring at his bare hands.

..

They're another coffee carafe down when she speaks again.

"Do you even have your ring, still?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your wedding ring." Addison enunciates carefully. "Did you … pawn it or something?"

"Pawn it?" Derek looks almost amused, though his eyes are hooded, even sad. "No. I didn't pawn it."

And he surprises her by reaching into his breast pocket and withdrawing … his wedding ring.

She has to hold back tears when she sees the gold band – it's been so long.

The last time she saw that ring was on the hand that grabbed her off the stairs and threw her out of the house.

She doesn't want to think about the last time she saw the ring.

And she doesn't want to think about the first time, either, since she'll have to go back to New York and deal with every single picture of that day … and that's enough.

So she thinks about this time.

"You brought the ring?"

He nods.

"Why?" she can't help asking.

"I … " Derek glances up at the receptionist, who shrugs a little, dustcloth in one hand. "I guess I thought – some people – return the rings?"

His voice goes up at the end and Addison's eyes widen. "Return the rings? To whom?"

Derek doesn't respond.

"You were just going to leave the ring here? What, for me? For the janitor? _What_, Derek?"

"Calm down," he says, frowning.

"I don't want your ring." Her voice shakes. "But thanks for the offer. I figured it would be at the bottom of the sound by now."

"Addison."

"_Derek. _Just don't– don't you even think about leaving that ring with me too."

"Okay. I won't."

She takes a sip of water now, using both hands on the glass. It feels cold and slippery but it helps her parched throat.

She sets the glass down and looks at him.

"I can't do everything on my own, Derek. I can't. It's too much."

"Addison." He sounds a little surprised for some reason.

She doesn't respond, just rests her chin in the hand that's still chilled from her water glass.

Staying strong is exhausting.

The way he says her name … is exhausting.

She showed up here in faux high spirits, knowing it would be awful and painful but also knowing that she couldn't let Derek see how broken she felt. Not when he was still acting like leaving her – again – was the best thing that ever happened to him.

And she probably could have kept them up, if Steve had made his appearance any time this century, but the minutes ticking by in the conference room with just Derek and the strangely omnipresent receptionist – they're wearing on her.

They hurt. Time is supposed to heal, right?

But it doesn't.

Time hurts.

Every second that goes by in this room with Derek close enough to touch but somehow so far away she can hardly see him?

It hurts.

..

"Addison."

She forces herself to look up. She's can't keep this up. She can't pretend this is all fun and banter. Like signing divorce papers is just another day and not the legal imprimatur of yet another knife in her heart.

"I _am_ sorry," he says quietly. "I'm sorry for … my part. The parts before the prom, too."

She doesn't say anything.

"I wasn't .. stringing you along," he continues. "Not consciously. I can see why you would say that, but … that wasn't what I was doing."

"What were you doing?" she asks, not quite trusting her voice.

"I thought I was trying." He looks down at his hands. "It was hard," he admits.

Addison thinks of the receptionist's words.

About how affairs are light and fun and new and marriage is – work, and obligation. And the good parts too, but those fade.

They fade fast and you're left with everything else.

"It was hard with me," Addison says. "And it was easy with Meredith."

Derek looks conflicted. "I don't want to hurt you," he says. "But … yes."

Hard with Addison.

Easy with Meredith.

She knows how that is.

Telling Derek she was lonely and neglected and needed more from him, in the marriage?

Hard.

Letting Mark tell her she was beautiful and underappreciated and deserved more?

Easy.

"It was hard for me too," she says quietly. "Coming here. I – know I asked you take me back and I did want that and I wanted to work on our marriage but it was hard. Every day."

Derek looks a little surprised. "But you wanted to try."

"I know. I do. _Did_," she corrects herself quickly.

Because it's over.

"If you marry Meredith," she says quietly.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he interrupts.

"If you marry Meredith," she continues, "she won't be _new_ forever. Not even for that long. She'll be the one taking your hangers for her clothes and arguing with you over property taxes and vacation days and who left the air conditioning on."

Derek doesn't respond.

"You'll have to still love her," Addison says, hearing her voice shake and deciding she doesn't care, "even after she's not bright and shiny and new anymore."

"Addison."

"I was bright and shiny too, you know." She looks up at him, feeling the tears threatening to spill over. His face softens at the sight, though he looks troubled. "I was bright and shiny when we met. I was new and you loved me."

"Addie." He shakes his head a little. "Don't – don't do this."

"You did love me," she says. "When we were new and exciting."

Slowly, he nods.

"And after that, too. For a while. Right?"

"Addison."

"Derek, please."

He exhales audibly. "Of course I loved you," he says.

"But when did you stop?"

Derek is casting uncomfortable glances toward the receptionist, who is still dusting one of the bookshelves.

"Derek." She leans forward, suddenly needing him to respond. "You have to answer. You owe me that much."

He's silent.

"You have to answer. You slept with Meredith. You left me the panties and you left _me. _And now we're here and we're signing so yeah, you owe me that much, Derek. You do."

"Addison."

"You _do_," she insists. "You owe it to me to tell me. Even though you don't care, even though you're finished with me, you owe me that much. Tell me when you stopped so I know for next time, how long it will take, or so I know for this time how long it _did _take, so I can figure out what I did and what you did and how this whole mess – " a tear breaks free and slides down her cheek. Embarrassed, she fumbles in her purse.

The receptionist slides a box of pink tissues in front of her.

"Thanks," she mutters.

She looks up at Derek. His face is set and stubborn.

"Please," she says quietly. "Derek, please just tell me. When did you stop loving me?"

"I didn't!" he explodes without warning and she jumps in her seat for the second time that morning. "I should have," he says, far more quietly now, "and maybe I thought I did, but I didn't."

Addison just stares, more startled by his words than his shout, trying to make sense of it.

"I _tried_," he admitted. "I came out here, pretended you didn't exist, made a new life."

She folds the tissue in her hands.

"Derek," she says tentatively.

He shakes his head, looking embarrassed.

"You never said it, though." She takes a sip of water. "I said it, but you never did."

"I know."

"But you didn't … stop?"

He shakes his head.

"But …" she glances across the table, where the receptionist is watching them closely for some reason. "But what about now?"

He doesn't respond.

He can't meet her eye and all of a sudden it's too much.

It's all too much.

She pushes back her chair. "Get Steve," she tells the receptionist. "Please, tell him he has to come here, he has to come _now_, because I can't do this anymore. It's not fair. I can't sit in this room anymore. Please."


	2. The End and the Beginning

_A/N: Make sure you read the first chapter first._

* * *

**The Only Thing That Gets a Little Complicated  
_Part II_**

* * *

_I have to get out of here._

That's all she can think when she stops pleading, her heart pounding in time with her words.

"Addison." Derek is frowning at her outburst.

"I'm so sorry, Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd," the receptionist says, shaking her head sadly. "I know this is hard."

"If you knew then you wouldn't make us do this." Addison swipes away more tears with the crumpled pink tissue, ignoring the box first the receptionist and then Derek pushes towards her. "You wouldn't make us sit here and – _be _here – and see him – "

She's not making any sense.

Just like her life.

(What's left of it.)

_I didn't! _That's what Derek said.

He didn't.

It's just too much.

She lets her head drop into her folded arms on the surface of the table.

Because it's too much for dignity and too much for silence and there's no one in the room anyway except Derek and the overly conscientious receptionist and they're here to sign divorce papers but the mediator won't even show up and he said he didn't.

He said he _didn't._

She lets a few tears come, not sure if she could have stopped them if she tried.

"Can you give us a minute?" she hears Derek saying quietly to the receptionist, his voice a little muffled since he head is in her arms.

She doesn't look up, doesn't look at anything but the inside of her eyelids. Her face is resting against the sleeves of her silk blouse and it's – marginally comforting. She'll have to get used to this, like she did the first time: not having anyone else to hold her when she cries. Doing it herself.

Doing everything herself.

She hears a squeaking, traveling sort of sound and in spite of herself lifts up her head a little, blinking away moisture from her eyes. Derek is only about a foot away now, still sitting in his chair, in a patch of light streaming in from the oversized windows.

"Did you … _roll _over here?" she asks.

He nods.

"That's, um." She swipes at her eyes with the tissue. "That was … "

What was it? Nice?

She doesn't want him to roll any closer because she's already holding it all together with nothing at all, the emotional version of ratty scotch tape and a piece of worn out string.

"Where did the receptionist go?" she asks in lieu of finishing her sentence, her voice a little hoarse.

Derek shrugs. "Probably to dust something."

She _almost _smiles.

He looks at her.

"We've seen the lawyer bills, but I wonder how much they charge an hour for cleaning," he muses.

Now she smiles a little through her tears.

"Addison."

She looks at him, and his familiar face blurs.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I didn't think that today would be – " he stops speaking. "I thought we had figured it all out," he says finally.

Yeah. She knows what that's like.

"We agreed on the terms," he adds.

"We said we would split everything." It's not like they had a – meeting, or whatever, but it just seemed obvious. "_You _were the one to spring the – property stuff on me," she reminds him.

"I thought I was making things simpler."

"No, you thought you were washing your hands of me forever."

"We don't wash our hands though," Derek says, looking like he's fighting a smile, "didn't we decide that's the problem?"

"Oh, is that our problem?"

He opens his mouth and then closes it again.

She looks down at her hand, where the rings sparkle, and then she can't see them because his bigger, warmer hand is covering hers.

_This is the end_, she reminds herself. There are no more firsts from here on out, just lasts.

The last time he'll touch her hand like this, offering a brief squeeze of comfort like he used to.

"I really am sorry," he says.

The last time he'll apologize.

"Yeah." With some effort, she sits all the way up. "I'm sorry too."

His eyes are soft. "I guess they should warn you that signing divorce papers is a little …"

" … difficult?" Addison suggests. "I mean, it's been – " she looks at her watch while Derek looks at his and then they exchange a look. " – a long time," she finishes.

"Right." Derek gives her hand a light squeeze before he releases it, but then surprises her by taking her fingers in his again, running his thumb over her rings.

She doesn't move at all while he's touching her.

"You're still wearing the rings," he says quietly.

"We're still married," she reminds him.

He looks down at his bare hand.

"Even though you never put yours back on," she says, "we're still married. We've been married this whole time."

"Yeah." He's still holding her fingers. "I guess we have."

She gestures toward his breast pocket with her free hand. "Time to get rid of your ring for good."

"Addison."

"No, it's fine." She stretches her lips into something resembling a smile. "Maybe we can – donate them or – melt them down into a – "

_A bullet, _that's the first thing that comes to mind, and it's dark enough to make her shudder and not the kind of thing she'd want to share.

She closes her eyes for a moment but when she opens them, her innards tilt like she has vertigo.

Because he's holding it.

He's holding his ring in his free hand.

"Derek …"

"I just wanted to see," he says. His voice is very quiet.

The thing is, she gets it.

They're about to sign papers and un-marry each other and he hasn't put the ring back on since that awful night, it seems, and she hasn't seen it on him since then, and he wants to see it one more time.

It's something she might do.

As different as they are … they're also not so different at all.

Her eyes well up again and she doesn't bother to try to stop it this time. A tear drops onto their joined right hands where they rest on the conference table.

Derek looks at her, his eyes suddenly, unbearably sad.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I, um, I didn't want to – "

_To admit how much this hurts, _that's the truth, but she can't say it.

She just shakes her head, her lips pressed together because god, teary eyes are hard enough, falling tears are even worse, but _noisy _tears? They're well past that stage. She was well past that stage by the time she was out of diapers, in public at least, at her mother's insistence.

It just isn't done.

He rests his free hand on her arm and she knows he's trying to be nice but it's the one holding the ring so it's an awkward three-fingered arm hold with the metal of his ring pressing into her flesh.

"Derek." She pulls back and he nods, now moving the ring from one of his hands to the other, not touching her at all.

"It's a nice ring," he admits, resting it in the middle of his palm.

"It is a nice ring." She wipes her eyes with a fresh tissue.

And then he slides it onto the fourth finger of his left hand and she starts crying again. She can't help it.

It's Derek's divorce too, he should be allowed to look at the ring and try it on and feel how _strange _this is, all the unexplored corners of the dissolution of a marriage, but having to watch him do it is pretty much tearing her apart.

"Don't," she says when he glances at her, and is relieved when he doesn't ask her anything or try to comfort her.

"It still fits," he observes, neutrally.

That's all he says.

She looks down at her left hand. She hasn't even contemplated taking the rings off. For surgery, that's when they come off, and that's it. Otherwise – they might as well be a part of her fingers.

"I can't believe you were going to give your ring to the mediator," Addison says now, shaking her head, tears mostly under control.

"It's a nice ring," Derek reminds her.

"Were you going to propose to him?"

"Very funny." He pauses. "And the mediator is apparently not showing up – either one of them – so I suppose I can only give it to the receptionist."

"Nope," Addison reminds him, "she's married, remember? Fifteen years."

"Right." Derek contemplates this. "That's a long time."

"It is."

"But she probably keeps a very clean house," Derek says, and she can't help smiling a little at this, even if it's a watery smile.

He smiles back – just barely, but enough for someone who knows him like she does to see it.

..

"Addison. What you said before – about Meredith being shiny and new – and our relationship not being hard yet – "

Addison winces a little. "Yes, I remember," she says, drily.

"You're right," he says. "Which is not to say that it was easy, but that's because, you know, you came back, and – "

"Were you going to tell her you were married?" Addison interrupts, genuinely curious. "Were you going to wait for the bigamy suit, or …?"

"Very funny." He shakes his head, not looking particularly annoyed. "Actually, I was going to tell her the night you showed up."

Addison stares. "Really?"

"Really. We were on our way out, and I was going to tell her at dinner. But then you … ."

"Right." Addison considers this. "I guess I kind of messed up your plans."

"You kind of definitely messed up my plans," he corrects her. "But the truth would have come out, eventually." He pauses. "The truth maybe didn't need to make quite such a memorable entrance."

Her cheeks flush a little. Yes, she was putting on a show, but she didn't realize at the time that Meredith had no idea Derek was married. That her own husband had made this woman an unwilling mistress.

… but now she's a willing mistress, even if the term is uncharitable, so at least there's that.

"I think Meredith got me back in the end," Addison says mildly.

Derek, for some reason, looks worried. "It's not her fault."

"Not Meredith's fault." Addison raises an eyebrow. "I agree. Meredith isn't the one who married me, so no … it's not her fault."

Derek looks at her for a moment. "She got hurt," he says.

"So did we."

"I know that." He actually doesn't break contact. "But you and I, we made mistakes. Mark," and he pronounces the name with some distaste, "made mistakes. Meredith didn't."

"The first time, she didn't," Addison says. "But there were two people at the prom, and that time, both of them knew you were married."

Derek lowers his eyes.

"I'm not going to hold it against her." Addison shrugs a little when he looks at her. "What's the point? And anyway, we have to work together."

Derek looks surprised. "That's very reasonable of you," he says, then pauses. "Are you going to hold it against me?"

"Truthfully? … yes."

He laughs a little and then so does she.

"We have to work together too," he reminds her.

"True, but we're equals. Meredith's an intern. It's not professional to hold something against an intern."

They both pause, Addison fairly certain they're both imagining the same double entendre Mark would probably kill to make right now.

"We're equals." Derek repeats, looking down again, and then he raises his eyes. "Can I remind you that you said that next time we disagree about a patient?"

"Not without proof, you can't."

He glances up. "I don't suppose the room is bugged."

"No, but if it is … I'm sure it's dust-free."

Derek looks faintly amused, then serious again.

..

"Addison."

_Now what? _

"What?" she says instead.

"What I said before – that I chose wrong, when I chose you – "

Oh, how kind of him to repeat it one more time. It smarts just as much, too.

"Yes. I remember." She stares at her coffee cup, playing with the handle again.

"It's not true."

She raises her eyes. "It's not?"

He shakes his head. "No. Well." He looks down at his hands – maybe at the ring, maybe not. "I wanted it to be true."

She considers this. She's pretty sure she gets it.

The same she wanted to believe she didn't throw her marriage away.

Or her life away.

And for that to be true … Mark would have to be the right choice.

"You don't know," Addison suggests gently, giving him an out. "You haven't been married to her."

She says it like it's just a rhetorical point, and not a concept that makes her whole body ache.

"No, I haven't." Derek looks at her for a moment. "Mark is here," he says.

"I know." Addison sighs. "I chose right, though, when I left him."

"What about that night in your hotel room?" He asks it without malice but also without that … sense of smug amusement that ran through his voice the night he saw Mark there.

"I wasn't _choosing_ him, that night," Addison says. "I was just – "

" – no need for details."

"Okay." She smiles, slightly. Then she thinks of something she's been meaning to say. "There was nothing between Mark and me, not since I left New York, until that night," she says. "I called him. I was – upset, after I found the panties, and I called him, and he flew here and – well. My point is, that was the first time, since … everything."

Derek nods, but something in his expression makes her think he wasn't quite sure of it until now, if he ever considered it.

Then he looks around. "We're alone," he says.

Addison nods, a little confused.

"It's not a mediation if we're alone."

"We haven't even met the mediator," Addison reminds him.

"True. For such a highly-regarded mediator, he doesn't seem particularly … client-centered."

They exchange a glance that you really can only do after eleven years of marriage, a two-second glance that tells the full story of attending the party celebrating Weiss's election to partner and then sitting through a rather tipsily enthusiastic tribute to their friend that used the term _client-centered _so many times that when Addison quietly proposed a drinking game he laughed before he could stop himself. Audibly. During a rare moment of silence between iterations of the phrase _client-centered _while Addison blushed furiously and fretted to him under her breath that they'd ruined Weiss's night. Of course they didn't – Weiss was amused and assured them that he told any partners who brought it up that _you'll have to excuse my friends, they're not lawyers_, and that was that.

Two seconds of a shared glance now, two hours one night five or six years ago.

There's no moment of their shared lives – the ones that started when they were _twenty-two_ and just the youth of that is enough to take her breath away – that doesn't trigger another memory … and then another.

Everything is woven together, too tightly for her to separate it.

It's a lot of things … but it's not simple.

That's what Derek said, wasn't it? That he was offering her all the New York property, the inside and out of both of their marital homes, in order to _make this simple? _

She looks up at him and has one of those moments in a marriage – even if it's in its final moments, it's still a marriage right now – where she knows he's thinking the same thing.

If they don't have many moments left in their marriage, she's not going to waste even one.

So she says it out loud.

"This isn't simple."

Derek doesn't ask, _what isn't simple? _

He just nods. "You're right."

..

It's over, so she has to say things.

She just has to say things.

"I can't do it myself, Derek. Both of those houses. I just – "

"I know." He swallows, and she watches his Adam's apple move. "I shouldn't have suggested it."

"Even the trailer." She looks up at him, feeling heat behind her eyes again. "I haven't even done that."

"It hasn't been that long," he says quietly.

"It's been long enough." She took a suitcase with her that first night, but – "I need more clothes," she admits.

"You," Derek repeats disbelievingly, a note of teasing in his voice.

"I need to get my things," she repeats.

"Of course." He tilts his head, his eyes soft enough to make her feel uneasy again. "Addison, I don't want to make this difficult."

She chokes on a mirthless laugh. "Oh, great. Thank you, for that."

He frowns. "I mean it. You can come and get your things whenever works for you. It's not – there's no pressure, I'm not even sure where you're – " he pauses. "Where _are_ you living?" he asks.

"I'm _staying_ at the Archfield," she says with as much dignity as she can when she's admitting to basically being homeless.

"Still?"

"Yes, still. What did you expect?" she snaps before she can stop herself.

He holds up a hand as if to settle her. "I was just asking."

"And I was just answering. I live in a hotel, Derek, so excuse me if I'm not rushing to your trailer or our – _my_ – whatever they are – houses to clear them out."

"Addison." He pushes a weary hand through his hair. "I just said you don't have to rush."

She opens her mouth, then closes it. "Waiting doesn't help," she admits.

"No … I guess it doesn't."

..

She traces the whorls in the top of the conference table. She hasn't looked at her watch in – "It's late," she says, when she does.

"We blocked off the whole morning," Derek reminds her.

She glances at him. "Yes, but you said – "

"It's fine," he says.

"How's everyone doing?" The receptionist asks brightly, making a sudden reappearance and startling both of them enough that Derek's chair rolls forward and makes contact with Addison's, and her –

"Ow."

shin.

"Sorry," Derek mutters, reaching with what looks like instinct toward the part of her leg he bruised and then drawing his hand back like he's been burned.

Great. Her legs have been called many things over the years, some repeatable and some not so much, but _painful_ isn't one of them.

"Oh dear. Do you want some ice for that leg?" the receptionist asks sympathetically.

"No, thank you, it's fine." Addison recrosses her legs, managing to wince only a little.

_Sorry_, Derek mouths to her. Only the umpteenth time he's said it today but she can admit that each one is a tiny bit of a bandage on the wound that hasn't yet stopped bleeding.

Just a tiny bandage, mind you …

But still.

It's something.

"Still no Steve?" Derek asks, looking around the room.

The receptionist looks apologetic. "I'm providing updates," she says. "I know Steve is very invested in this case."

"Does he usually totally ignore his clients?"

The receptionist winces, then leans forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "You didn't hear it from me … but some people _do_ think Stone Cold Steve is overrated," she whispers.

Addison raises an eyebrow. "What about you?" she asks. "You must know him well. Do you think he's overrated?"

"No," the receptionist says. "But then I'm a little biased."

Seems fair.

"I wanted to check on you, though," the receptionist says. "Jerome called during a recess to say he's heading back soon … so he can see you, if you'd prefer."

Derek glances at Addison.

"Whatever's … simpler," Addison tells the receptionist, "would be fine."

And then she sees the moment the receptionist seems to notice Derek's wedding ring.

"I was trying it on," he says quickly. "No reason."

"Of course." The receptionist nods. "And does it still fit?"

"Yes," Derek says, sounding a little surprised.

"That sounds like a good reason." The receptionist smiles. "Can I offer either of you more coffee? A croissant?"

Addison, who's fairly certain she's about half a cup away from a stroke at this point, shakes her head.

"And you don't mind if I get back to work?" the receptionist asks, gesturing to what Addison has to assume is another row of dusty books. "I don't want to bother you."

Both Shepherds shake their heads.

Once the receptionist is dusting again, Addison turns to Derek. "This is the strangest mediation I've ever seen."

"Have you seen any others?"

"No," she admits, "but Savvy's told me some stories, and I guess I thought it would be … different."

"At least we hashed it out on our own," Derek says, his tone just a bit too hearty, "so we won't have to pay for too much of the mediator's time." He pauses. "We did hash it out?"

Slowly, Addison nods. "Everything, um, everything down the middle?"

Derek looks at her. "One house each?"

"One house each."

"What about Seattle?"

..

They both turn at the receptionist's voice.

"What about it?" Addison asks.

"The land in Seattle and the trailer – that's marital property too," the receptionist says. "You were married when you made those purchases," she reminds Derek, who grimaces a bit in response.

"Oh." Derek glances at Addison. "Well – "

"You can sell them both and split the proceeds," the receptionist offers.

"No, he wants to keep them," Addison says tiredly.

"Ah. _Well, _Steve does like to think outside the box. What about just splitting the property down the middle? Dr. Shepherd can put his trailer on one side and Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd can get her own trailer for the other side!"

The receptionist beams as if she's solved their problems.

Addison starts to say something but then has to press her hand against her mouth to smother a laugh instead.

_Her own trailer for the other side. _

Seriously.

Is this actually her life?

"Addison is not really a fan of trailers," Derek says with relative tact, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye before turning back to the receptionist.

"She's living in one now, I thought." The receptionist's face is puzzled.

"I was," Addison corrects her, "but that was just because … "

Her voice trails off.

_Because that's how badly I wanted my husband back_, but she has so little dignity left she can't bring herself to say it.

"Because I was living in it," Derek says, coming to her rescue. "And she moved in with me."

"Oh, I see. And where are you living now?" the receptionist asks Addison.

"I'm staying in a hotel near the hospital at the moment," she says, another phrase she's practiced in front of the mirror to say without emotion.

The receptionist considers this. "But you don't want to give up that beautiful lakefront land! You can just take half, and build a house on it."

_Just. _Like it's simple.

Derek and Addison exchange a glance.

"That's not really – "

"The other option, of course, is for one of you to buy the other out, and then keep the property," the receptionist says.

"Fine, I'll buy her out," Derek sighs.

"I don't need you to buy me out," Addison says, annoyed. "I don't need your money."

"Yes, we're all aware of that," he mutters.

"I'm sorry, you'll have to forgive my husband. He holds my great-great-great-great-grandparents' success against me," Addison tells the receptionist.

"_Success_ is a funny word for moving onto land that doesn't belong to you and claiming it," Derek says, raising an eyebrow, "but … sure."

Addison brushes her hair off her shoulder – okay, fine, tosses it.

Whatever.

"Actually," Derek adds, glancing at her, "maybe _moving onto land that doesn't belong to you and claiming it _is a family trait."

"Excuse me," Addison says, annoyed again. "You're seriously accusing me of … colonizing the trailer?"

"Steve can modify the divorce papers to include that, if you want," the receptionist intercedes, her tone serious.

Derek looks away, apparently trying to hide a smile. "No, thank you," Derek says, before turning back to Addison. " … if the colonizing shoe fits, Addie."

She shakes her head. "You're ridiculous."

"And your ridiculous shoes are all over the trailer you colonized."

"You _just_ said it was no rush to get my things!"

For a moment they look at each other.

"I wouldn't want Meredith to trip over my _ridiculous _shoes on her way into your bed," Addison says with exaggerated solicitude. "So I'll be sure to take care of it very soon."

"Oh, would you just shut up," he mutters, no longer looking amused.

Addison flushes, then looks up at the receptionist. "Actually, I think I've had a change of heart. I'd like to keep the land in Seattle, too."

Derek's head pops up.

"What did you say?"

Now he's paying attention.

"You can't be serious," he says.

"I'm very serious. Oh – and the trailer too," Addison continues. "I want half the trailer. The half with the plumbing," she adds.

"You're insane," Derek says to no one in particular, shaking his head. "That's the only possible – she's insane," he tells the receptionist.

"Do you want Steve to – "

"No, I don't want Steve to modify the papers to say my wife is insane," Derek snaps, "but if he ever bothers to show up to this appointment, I'm sure he'll see it for himself!"

..

"So," the receptionist says after long moments of loaded silence, looking from one of them to the other. "You both want Seattle."

"That's right." Addison draws herself up to her full height.

"Do we have a deal, then?" the receptionist asks brightly.

"No, we do _not_ have a deal. Addison, what is the matter with you?" Derek turns on her. "After all we just – why are you – you know you don't want Seattle."

"Where else am I going to live?"

"How about _anywhere else _in Seattle?" Derek suggests loudly. "Literally anywhere except my land and my trailer. This isn't – "

"Brain surgery?" she finishes.

"I was going to say _rocket science_." Derek pauses. "Addison. Why on earth do you want the trailer and the land?"

"I don't want them."

"Oh." Derek looks relieved. "Well. Good, I didn't that that you would – "

"I don't _want_ them," Addison continues, "because I already have them."

"Excuse me," Derek says, irritated.

"I already own half of them. We were married when you bought them, even if you were pretending to be single to pick up the first … bar skank who – "

"Don't finish that sentence." Derek's tone is dangerous when he interrupts. "The house you're in, right now? It's glass. All glass. So I'd put down the stone if I were you."

She raises an eyebrow, keeping her voice calm even as her heart pounds. "If you want to call me a whore, Derek … just go ahead and do it."

"Don't worry, I will."

"Good. And you might want to look in the mirror too, while you're at it, or in the dictionary and see what you can find to define a guy who leaves his girlfriend's panties in his tux pocket for his wife to find."

"And then you can look in the dictionary to see what you can find to define a _girl_," he says it just witheringly enough to cast aspersions on her age and _god_, she hates that she knows his inflections as well as he knows her weak spots, "who screws her husband's best friend in their bed. I'm sure you can find a few."

"Doctors?" the receptionist asks mildly before Addison can respond.

They turn to her, gathering themselves.

Neither is yelling – but they're both breathing heavily at this point.

"It seems like you have some more things to discuss," the receptionist says gently. "I've been here long enough to know that mediation is really for couples who have settled the issues between them."

"We've settled our issues," Derek says hastily. "We're not looking to go to court."

"Not as long as I can keep my land in Seattle," Addison says, smirking at the dirty look Derek shoots her.

..

She doesn't want the land.

Of course she doesn't want the land.

Derek knows she doesn't want the land.

God, even the receptionist who won't leave them along probably knows she doesn't want the land.

But she can't stop.

She can't stop herself, she never could, and that's part of the problem.

She used to count on Derek.

Derek could stop her.

En route to one bad decision or another, she could count on him to stop her, from pressing a red plastic cup of water into her hand at a grungy dorm party first year that smelled of stale beer and grain alcohol punch, before Brett Riley with his stupid turned up collars and khaki shorts could lure her back to his room – to the last time they saw her father, when she raised her hand and Derek stepped between them.

The thing is – you have to be paying attention to stop someone.

"Addison doesn't want the land," Derek announces. "She just wants to make my life difficult."

"That's what wives are for," Addison says.

"Which is why I'm trying to divorce mine," he tells the receptionist.

"I understand," she says sympathetically, "but the problem is that you both have to want to divorce, for the same reasons, at the same time, and with the same settlement, for mediation to work."

Derek shoots a black look in Addison's direction. "We know that," he says, obviously trying to sound rational although his shoulders are still rigid with anger. "That's why we're here. We're just – there's a bit of a – a misunderstanding."

He glances at Addison, who stares at the receptionist and refuses to meet his eye.

She can't stop winding him up.

_I'm sorry, _she wants to say, _you know I can't stop, not yet, _but she doesn't.

"Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd?"

Both Derek and the receptionist turn to her.

Derek's expression is pleading.

_Please make things easier, _that's what it says.

_Please make this simple._

She could do it, if she stops fighting.

"I want the trailer and the land in Seattle," she says firmly.

"Damn it!" Derek slaps the table with both palms this time, much louder than the first, standing up as he does so, and Addison flinches hard in her seat, pulse jumping. He turns on her, eyes blazing. "Why are you doing this? Are you really that angry? Or are you just insane?"

She parts her lips to answer as he stands over her, but her mouth is too dry to respond.

"_Addison_."

"Stop yelling at me," she says, finding her voice although it's smaller than she'd prefer.

Derek raises his eyes to the heavens, his exhale so audibly annoyed that he sounds like the horses she used to show as a child.

"Addison," he repeats, in an exaggeratedly patient tone, "I'm not yelling at you. I'm asking you a question."

She can't look at him, not right now. She traces the rim of her water glass with one finger. Terribly unhygienic and awful table manners but it's oddly comforting and if you do it just right it makes a distracting squeaking sound.

She needs all the distraction she can get right now.

Derek is shooting the receptionist a helpless look.

"Perhaps the two of you would be better off seeking individual counsel who can help you with – "

"No," Derek says quickly. "No. If something is over, it just needs to be over. We're signing today. That's why we're here. Right, Addison?"

"That's why we're here," she repeats mechanically.

"Okay. Good." He's still standing over her, but she sees him consciously soften his face. "So, we agree. Just drop this nonsense about the land in Seattle and we can sign the papers and get out of here. Don't you want to get back to your patients?"

Oh, that's a cheap trick.

"We've already wast – _spent _enough time here," Derek says. "It's practically – " he glances at his watch, eyes widening. "Look, let's get the papers signed now and then we'll have time to stop for lunch before we get back to the hospital." His voice is softer now, its undertone cajoling. "We can go to that place you like, with the awning."

"I don't like that place," Addison responds automatically, "I like the other place, with the – "

And then she stops.

Is she really falling for this?

Is she six years old again, eagerly skipping off with her father for a promised ice cream that turns into just another afternoon alone in his office while he _works_ with his secretary or his nurse?

No.

Derek is already divorcing her.

He already humiliated her at the prom.

He knows how much she wanted, and for how long, to spend time with him, and now he's using that against her?

Damn it.

Damn it, and damn him.

When she lifts her eyes to meet Derek's now, she can see the guilt in his.

He knows _exactly _what he's doing.

She lowers her eyes again before she has to see any more proof.

"Addie," he says softly, and she shakes her head before he can say anything else.

"I want the land in Seattle and the trailer," she repeats, tracing the rim of the water glass.

"Addison, this isn't a game!"

So much for his soft voice. Naturally, since she didn't respond the way he wanted.

"I know it's not a game."

"This is our actual – this is serious," he snaps.

"I'm aware." More tracing, and this time the wet glass squeaks audibly while he stands over her.

"Stop that," he says, irritated. "I'm trying to talk to you."

_Oh, do you see what it's like now, honey? I spent months trying to talk to you. _

"Addison," he says insistently.

"I already told you what I want," she mutters, keeping her finger going on the glass. It squeaks again.

"_Addison_."

"_Derek_," she says, mimicking his inflection but concentrating on her water glass, not daring to look up. "You're not going to change my mind."

"Change your mind?" He sounds incredulous. "You had no interest in the land or the trailer before this – before five minutes ago! What changed?"

She doesn't respond.

"Addison, I asked you a question – would you _stop_ doing that?" he asks irritably when she continues tracing the rim of her water glass.

She doesn't, head bowed toward the table, which is why she doesn't notice his hand until it's already starting to close around her wrist.

The speed of it startles her enough that she yanks her arm away from his, the glass tumbling onto its side and breaking into pieces on the hard surface of the table, sending splashes of water as far up as her face and more cold water skittering over its surface and onto her lap, soaking the settlement papers.

..

What happened was quick. Very quick. But now she feels slow. Slow … and heavy.

She hears Derek curse, she hears him apologize, presumably to the receptionist, but she's on droning autopilot, vaguely aware of the receptionist leaving the room and then she's reaching for what remains of the glass so she can fix –

"Addison, don't touch that," Derek says sharply, bringing her back into focus, and this time when he reaches for her arm he succeeds in gripping it and pulling her away from the table.

He's still holding her wrist and he turns her hand over in his palm, running his thumb lightly over its surface before he seems satisfied.

"Wait," he says when she starts to turn away. "What's that on your face?"

She looks at him, confused.

"Hold still," he says, but when he reaches toward her jaw she backs away.

"Addison. Would you just hold still?"

"It's fine," she says woodenly, reaching up to touch and he pushes her hand down again.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that, since you can't see it?"

She gives up and lets him.

But it's awkward having him this close, cupping her jaw in one hand and tracing her cheek with his other thumb. Awkward … and a little itchy. She shifts her weight only to have him chastise her for moving.

Ugh.

"… there," he says. "I thought so." His tone is grim, and she sees something sparkling on his palm.

Something very, very small, that must have hit her face when the glass broke.

"I thought it was just water," she admits.

"Well, it wasn't." Derek's face looks tight. "It was a very small shard of glass."

"Good to know," she says, keeping her tone light. He's still looking at her. " … thank you?" she adds, uncertainly.

"Don't mention it." He pauses, looking at her.

He doesn't say anything, but her stomach clenches just the same.

Almost unconsciously, she's running her hand over the skin on her wrist where his fingers gripped her.

Not so unconsciously that she doesn't notice.

But just enough that she can't seem to stop.

"Addison."

"Derek, it's fine."

_Drop it_. Maybe he could read that plea, in her eyes, except she's not looking at him.

He keeps talking. "Before, when you – "

"You startled me," she interrupts, firmly. "That's all."

"Right. That's what I thought." He looks at the spot on the table where the glass was whole and full of water moments ago. "I'm, uh, I'm sorry."

"You should be." She glances at him. "I was trying to play a song on the glass and you ruined the chorus."

His mouth twitches. "Yeah. I haven't seen you do that in a while."

He looks far less irritated with her now, more like … is it nostalgic? It's true that Addison has been … tactile, her whole life, and the years away from her family of origin were a glorious cacophony of touch: all the things she couldn't do under their watchful eye, whether it was playing with her jewelry or her hair, fiddling with buttons or trinkets or … tracing a tune on a water glass.

..

Addison glances at the wet pile of ruined papers and shattered glass, and then toward the half-open door of the conference room. "What are the odds she's coming back?"

Derek raises an eyebrow. "You think we scared her off?"

Addison doesn't respond.

"I'm sure she's seen worse," Derek says. "It's part of her job description."

"She's a receptionist."

"In a high-conflict work environment."

"Is that what we are?" It's Addison's turn to raise her eyebrows now. "High-conflict?"

"Something like that." Derek glances at his watch. "So much for speedy mediation."

"I think that ship sailed a while ago, actually." Addison pauses. "Derek … do you, um, do you want to stay in mediation?"

"You mean as opposed to … " he gestures in a way that somehow clearly says _more lawyers_ and Addison nods. "Then yes, I want to stay in mediation." He studies her face for a moment. "But the receptionist's message seems to be that we have to agree on the terms if we want to stay."

"I noticed." Addison sighs and reaches for the chair where she was sitting before; Derek pushes it out of her grasp. "What?" she asks, annoyed.

"There's broken glass."

"Not on the – fine," she says when he doesn't budge, and follows him around the table. Now they're sitting on one side, which is – different. She settles in the new seat, the leather cool through the fabric of her skirt, turns the chair toward Derek and then crosses her legs.

He does the same, except for the leg-crossing part.

"Now what?" she asks.

"Now we … try to agree." Derek looks at his watch. "Ideally, sometime before our next anniversary."

She stares.

"It's just an expression," he says, a little defensively.

She's going to drop it.

_Drop it, Addie. _

"It's three weeks away," she says in a small voice.

Damn it. So much for dropping it.

"Three – three weeks?"

She nods.

Derek pauses, looking like he's calculating something.

"Three weeks," he agrees after a moment, the math apparently working out for him.

"Yeah. We, uh, we almost made it twelve years," Addison says quietly.

"We made it a lot longer than that." Derek tilts his head, looking at her.

"I was only counting from the wedding."

"I know. I was counting from the beginning."

"The beginning." She laughs a little, the kind that's sadder than it is funny. "Yeah, I guess so."

That's the funny thing about labels.

There's always a beginning.

But the end … you never know when that will be.

She wouldn't have guessed that it would be today.

In a strange lawyers' office with an absent mediator and a table full of broken glass.

The end.

When she looks at her husband – he's still her husband, even if it's in name only – he actually looks a little sad.

Not amused, distracted, impatient, or that … smugly benevolent way he's treated her sometimes since she moved out.

But actually, genuinely sad.

He deserves it, she tells herself, he deserves to feel sad for once about the end of their marriage, and she doesn't deserve to have to comfort him when he's the one who drove the last stake through it.

Still, though …

..

"Eleven years isn't so bad," she offers.

"Eleven years and eleven months," he corrects.

"And one week."

"That too." Addison pauses, toying with the band of her watch before she looks up again. "I, uh, I don't actually want the land in the Seattle," she admits. "Or the trailer."

"I know," he says. He busies himself pouring a cup of coffee – is this their fifth carafe since they arrived? He offers her a sip, apparently noticing that her cup of coffee is on the other side of the table in the hazard zone, but she shakes her head. "I know you don't want them," he adds, "but I don't know why you said you did."

_Does it matter? _

She shrugs a little.

Derek looks down at the sheaf of papers on the table. His, anyway. Hers are ruined now, blotted with water and surrounded by shards of glass.

As a metaphor … it's a bit much.

As clumsiness … it was a close call.

As something else –

But that's not important. That's not what happened.

When she looks up Derek's gaze is on her and she shifts, uncomfortable.

"I was trying to move your hand away from the glass," Derek says quietly. "To, uh, to interrupt the chorus. That's all."

"I know that," she mutters, cheeks flushing, willing him not to go further.

"Okay. Good." He pauses. "But I, uh, I should probably have kept my hands to myself."

She raises an eyebrow. "Now who sounds like they're mediating a fight between … the kids?" she asks.

He smiles faintly. "Well, someone needs to mediate," he says, "since _Stone Cold Steve_ won't show up."

Addison looks down at the table for a moment.

She arrived at this office what feels like a lifetime ago – fine, it's only been a few hours – with one firm and very brief rule for herself:

Show _nothing. _

She had it all planned out: she wasn't going to get emotional, certainly wasn't going to cry, wouldn't raise her voice, wouldn't express a single feeling over the end of her marriage other than cool, restrained amusement.

In other words: she was going to be her mother.

Don't blink an eye. Don't shed a tear. Don't give away a thing.

Not ever.

She's broken those rules too many times to count, shedding tears more than once, raising her voice, showing anger and even fear, admitting defeat and acknowledging – if even slightly – the pain of this situation.

And then she latched onto the land in Seattle, somehow convinced that she could drive Derek to lose his cool and somehow get back the points she herself lost every time she showed her hand.

Derek doesn't play that way; he's not calculating the way she is and she means this positively _and_ negatively.

Now, having broken all her rules … she's not really sure what comes next.

Is this it?

There's nothing left to do but … sign?

Except they need the actual papers.

They need a mediator for those.

They don't have a mediator.

They don't even have a receptionist, not anymore.

They have a pile of wet papers, a broken glass, and each other.

That's it.

..

"Derek."

He looks at her.

"I'm tired," she admits.

He glances at his coffee cup.

"Not that kind of tired. Well, that kind of tired too. But …" her voice trails off.

"Yeah. It's been a long morning."

They both look toward the side of the table where the broken glass and Addison's wet copy of the divorce papers is still just … sitting there.

"The one time she's not in a rush to clean up," Addison observes.

"When it's actually dangerous," Derek finishes for her, looking faintly amused.

_Dangerous._

The receptionist doesn't know the half of it.

This is the most Addison has actually talked to her husband, actually listened to his voice, been in a room with him, in – she's not going to try to calculate it.

They've rehashed more than she ever thought they would.

No wonder they're tired.

Hours, though.

Actual hours … and nothing accomplished except a wet pile of papers listing a settlement they didn't even agree on. And a broken glass. In other words, all they've done since they arrived is make things worse.

Great.

"Addison."

She glances up. Derek is looking at her.

"It would be … difficult … to deal with the houses from here," he says.

"… yes," she says uncertainly, not sure where this is going.

"It's a lot for one person to do," he continues.

"Yes."

He sighs. "And we have to split up the property before we can sign the papers."

Yes," she says again, then tilts her head. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying … I don't know what I'm saying. Am I out of my mind?" He rubs a hand through his hair. "I haven't been back there since – "

"Neither have I," she says in a small voice.

He looks confused. "What do you mean?"

"Since that night." She swallows. "I packed up, I went to …"

" … to Mark's."

"Yeah." She looks down at the table. "I'm not proud of that. I just … I couldn't go back."

_Not proud_, that's an understatement if she's ever heard one.

_Ashamed_ is more like it.

Embarrassed. And scared. Not just the day she – but all the days.

All the days since then.

"We should go back there."

..

She looks up, not sure whether she should believe what she's hearing. "Really?"

Slowly, he nods. "There's a … mess to clean up." He's looking at the pile of wet papers and broken glass, so she can't quite see his expression. "Someone needs to clean it up. Sort it out. Before we can – "

" – before we can sign," she finishes for him, then pauses.

"Yeah." He looks down at the table.

She sits up a little straighter. "Don't do this because you feel sorry for me," she warns him.

"Feel sorry for you." He lifts an eyebrow. "Is that what you think?"

"You showed up here prepared to make me do it all myself. Deal with both houses."

" … I thought it would be simpler," he says.

Yes. He's said that before.

"I was wrong," he adds, and _that_ is different enough that she reaches out for his coffee cup and – heart rate be damned – takes a generous sip.

She's not sure what to say next.

But she doesn't have to decide, because the door opens the receptionist flutters in, smiling at both of them, holding a bucket of cleaning supplies.

"I'm _so _sorry," she says. "That took longer than I thought. It's just you don't want to clean up a mess until you have the right tools. Don't you agree?"

Addison glances at Derek, then nods.

"We had a couple in here once who knocked over a glass – tried to clean it up with a _napkin_, and made everything worse. Blood, and then we had to print up a new set of documents, and get the table re-stained, and he needed … stitches, something like that."

Derek and Addison exchange an amused glance at the receptionist's order of injuries, with ruined legal papers first and medical attention last.

… seems about right.

"I've said we should switch to plastic cups – people tend to be a little clumsier when they're here, for some reason – but Jerome's a traditionalist. He likes a china cup, a real glass – " she shakes her head, a fond look on her face.

Then they watch as the receptionist makes short work of the broken glass using a large sponge and rubber gloves and disposes of the wet, ruined settlement papers in a separate bag, presumably for shredding.

"Well!" she says, when she's finished. "You'll need a new set of papers for signing, of course."

Addison toys with the strap of her watch.

"Have you come to an agreement on the new terms?"

_Isn't the mediator supposed to help us with that? _Addison has the uncharitable thought but doesn't say it out loud. It certainly won't help to make the obviously overworked receptionist feel guilty for her boss's absence.

"We're going to take some more time to discuss the terms," Derek says.

Addison looks up at him. It's what he implied before, but –

"Oh!" The receptionist looks taken aback. "But didn't you want to sign today?"

"Yes," Derek says.

Addison lowers her eyes to the table. So they are going to sign.

Today.

..

It's not like she's not prepared.

_You want my autograph again? _That was the line she practiced, in front of the mirror, just casual enough to make clear to anyone listening – almost anyone, anyway – that signing divorce papers meant nothing to her. Easy.

Breezy.

_Another autograph? Please, you're flattering me._

It's just that before, it seemed like –

"I did want to sign today," Derek continues, "but I think we need some more time to discuss the properties."

The receptionist nods. "You're considering my plan for two trailers on the Seattle land," she predicts with a knowing smile. "I was going to suggest an invisible fence, too, if you're concerned about property lines – "

" – we'll keep that in mind," Addison interrupts politely. "Thank you, for your help. I know this is … outside your job description."

"Oh, we all do what we can around here to help." The receptionist smiles. "So I'll let Jerome know you're taking some more time, and if you give me that copy, Dr. Shepherd – thank you, I'll put it in the shredder."

Addison is watching her husband – he's still her husband – out of her peripheral vision.

He's saying goodbye to the receptionist, and then he glances at Addison.

"That was waste of time," Addison says, feeling more nervous rambling coming on and not prepared to stop it. "All those mediation hours and the mediator never showed up and we never actually signed the papers, which is what we came here to do – "

"Addison."

She stops talking.

"It's okay." He looks at his watch. "We blocked the whole morning off."

"But – " She stops again.

"We'll figure it out," he says quietly. "We can take a little more time to – discuss it."

She doesn't respond.

"We were married for eleven years," says, his tone making it sound like an admission. "We can take more than one morning to … decide things."

_Almost twelve._

Almost, but not quite.

And almost doesn't count.

She tilts her head. "You said when something is over, it just needs to be over."

"I know what I said."

..

She busies herself gathering her things, still confused about what's happening.

They didn't sign.

They didn't agree.

They still own three properties, two in New York, one in Seattle, and two of them are filled with … stuff.

Objects and memories and _stuff._

And she's not going to have to deal with them alone.

Uncertain, she glances at Derek.

"We're both going to … deal with the properties?" she asks.

"We're both responsible for them," he says.

"Yeah, I guess we are." She pauses. "It's going to take more than one morning to go through the houses, Derek."

"Yeah. I know."

He's gathering his things too and then she looks behind her to see that he's holding out her lightweight coat.

Surprised, she slides her arms into it, letting him help her with it.

He's standing very close.

She touches the jacket, a little nervous for some reason.

"Should I, uh, should I check the pockets first?" she jokes weakly.

"If it will make you feel better," he says.

"I don't know what will make me feel better," she admits, not joking anymore.

"Yeah." He grimaces. "Neither do I."

"You don't?"

"I thought I did … but I don't."

She looks at his familiar face. When she prepared for this, when she practiced in front of the mirror, it was with the reminder that this might be the last time they were alone in a room together.

The last time they were this close.

Now she's not so sure.

She's not sure of anything.

"Addison?"

"Yes?" she whispers.

"Let's get out of here."

Her knees actually feel weak. She dares to look at his eyes and –

"We need to get back to work," he says.

Right.

Of course.

Embarrassed and trying not to show it, she gives him what she hopes is a friendly smile.

Work.

They have work.

What did she expect, for him to sweep her up and reenact the staircase scene from Gone With the Wind?

(Fine, that was already her second – no, third – anniversary present, and while Derek swore it was worth it, he did end up in PT for three months stretching out his left hamstring.)

She feels the light weight of his hand against her back when he steps back to let her out the door first.

The reception area is empty, and they exchange a glance.

She still can't believe what time it is.

She still can't believe how much they talked.

She still can't believe they're not finished.

"We have more to discuss," Derek says quietly, as if he's read her mind.

"Yeah. I know." She glances at him, taking a chance. "Is lunch still on the table … so to speak?"

His mouth quirks. "It could be. But – "

"But we need more time than that," she finishes for him.

He nods. "We do. But we might as well get started."

He reaches for the wide double doors leading to the hallway.

It's his left, and she sees the glint of his wedding ring.

_It still fits, _that's what he said.

She's not sure he's even aware he's kept it on.

_We might as well get started._

His gaze falls on the ring then, so that when he glances at her, she can tell he knows it too:

That this is the beginning of something.

Of what, she has no idea.

All she knows is that it's not the end.

..

"Addison, you do realize that pressing the elevator button _after_ I pressed it isn't going to make it come any faster."

She frowns at him.

"I forgot you're an elevator technician, Derek, in addition to all your other talents." She stabs the button again a few times, half to spite and half to amuse him.

They're still in the wide carpeted hall … waiting.

The doors open, finally, and a tall suited man emerges, leather briefcase in hand. Red folders of the type that are always in Savvy and Weiss's apartment emerge from the open bag.

There's something familiar about his face.

"You must be Derek and Addison Shepherd," the man says in a deep voice, looking from one of them to the other. "I'm surprised you're still here – I assumed I'd miss you. We spoke," he adds, turning to Derek.

"Jerome," Derek guesses, his tone weary. He makes a half-hearted move toward the open elevator but the doors close too soon for them to get on.

"That's correct," the lawyer is saying now. He shakes both their hands as they exchange greetings. "Please accept my apologies for the switch-up this morning. I couldn't be here, but I knew you were in good hands. The best."

"Um, actually," Addison says, figuring Jerome might as well know what happened. "We weren't in any – "

She's interrupted when the door to the lawyers' office swings open.

"Jerome? I thought I heard you arrive." The receptionist steps out the open doorway. "You're back," she says.

"I'm back." He smiles at her. "And I got to meet the Shepherds after all."

"Isn't that lucky. And how was court?"

"Retained custody … with additional services," he says. "Altogether a successful morning."

The receptionist shakes her head. "Great work, as always."

"And you, thank you for – " Jerome glances at Addison and Derek. "You got those papers signed, right?"

" … not exactly," Addison admits.

"We're going to take a little more time," Derek says.

"Ah. Well, you know how to reach us if you need us," Jerome says as Addison rings for the elevator again.

Jerome and the receptionist say goodbye, and while the Shepherds wait for the elevator, they can hear their conversation outside the door of the lawyers' office.

"That's an interesting result," Jerome says.

"You know how it goes."

The elevator arrives, finally, and both Shepherds board before anything else can distract them.

"I do know how it goes," Jerome is saying to the receptionist as they press the lobby button. "I know they don't call you Stone Cold Steve for nothing."

Stone Cold …

"_Steve?_" Addison repeats weakly, looking at the receptionist.

Or at least the person they thought was the receptionist.

"It's short for Stephanie," the woman says, looking undisturbed by their matching expressions of shock.

"Short for – "

She and Derek exchange a glance.

"But you – "

The elevator doors close before she can say anything else, but not before she sees the smirk on … _Steve's_ face.

Stone Cold, indeed.

..

"We've been played," Derek says, shaking his head, as they ride down to the lobby.

"We certainly have." Addison glances at him. "And we're probably going to get quite a bill for all those hours."

"We probably are," Derek agrees.

"We could complain," Addison says tentatively as they walk through the marble-floored lobby

"We could." Derek stands back so she can enter the revolving doors first.

On the sidewalk, they blink a little in the cool misty air. It's not drizzling, but it feels like it could start at any moment. Addison adjusts the collar of her coat.

"Derek?"

He nods.

The air is damp, always, but she notices a little streak of sunlight too – spearing through the grey clouds. Just barely, but it's enough to warm her cheeks when she looks up.

"You think we still have time for that lunch?" she asks.

He looks at her for a moment.

"I think we might be able to make it work," he says.

For the first time in a long time … so does she.

* * *

_Fin. My babies! Obviously, the whole story is a shout-out to the incomparable Miranda Bailey and her Thanksgiving antics. Sometimes it's what you have to do to deal with people who refuse to make anything simple. Even if it should be._

_Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed - please review and let me know to power me up for my next WIP updates (which are coming very soon). _


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